


Until We Meet Again

by Slow_Burn_Sally



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Character Names, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Dreams and Nightmares, Hypnotism, Love Confessions, M/M, Me Finding New Ways To Make These Boys Happy, Pining, Reincarnation, Slow Burn, Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:01:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29608428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slow_Burn_Sally/pseuds/Slow_Burn_Sally
Summary: Marc feels the world tilt a little bit as the man’s dark eyes settle on his face. He feels faint, mildly nauseated and he swears there’s a deep, disturbing, creaking noise, like a great, old wooden house settling down for the night, but magnified tenfold, reverberating in the air around them. He can’t move. He can’t speak. His mind is flooded with (by now) familiar images he still can’t quite piece together. Rocks and ice and dark stains that might be blood. They’re the images from his dreams, and to have them intrude on his waking mind is deeply concerning and disorienting.
Relationships: John Bridgens/Henry "Harry" Peglar
Comments: 9
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I was given excerpts of Dan Simmons' book to provide information for Bridgens and Peglar's relationship and back story. It was extremely helpful in that regard, as they have precious little backstory in the show. But I found the way he wrote them to be not at all romantic or exciting. I prefer them as unrequited loves, not as ex partners in a well worn friendship. Also, I found Simmons' characterization of Bridgens unflattering. Why write about that when I can write about silver fox and all around sexy man John Lynch? 
> 
> 2\. The characters have different names for the majority of this fic, but I'm hoping their personalities and connection shine through. 
> 
> 3\. In this fic, Peglar is a Henry. I love the name Henry, and Bridgens calls him Henry in the show... so....

_And only the enlightened can recall their former lives; for the rest of us, the memories of past existences are but glints of light, twinges of longing, passing shadows, disturbingly familiar, that are gone before they can be grasped, like the passage of that silver bird on Dhaulagiri._

― Peter Matthiessen, The Snow Leopard

Marc Reader has always been a bit lost. Even though he’s ambitious in his scholastic endeavors, graduates uni with high honors and immediately launches himself into a successful career in marketing, he’s still always had the feeling that something is missing.

It shows up in the hollowness that lives in his chest. And in the strange dreams he has. Nightmares about dark places, growling beasts, walls of white rising above him. The nightmares are blessedly infrequent, but they’ve been there as long as he can remember, occurring at least once monthly, and they wake him, gasping and confused every time. 

He’s a romantic sort of individual, prone to drifting off into abstract thoughts and fantasy scenarios if he’s not rigorously focused. The focusing part he learns to perfect after too many years of lost mittens, forgotten lunches, lost keys… 

He’s honestly surprised that he went into the marketing field, as it seems he’d be far better suited emotionally to something more adventurous or artistic. An actor perhaps. Or an English professor. But despite his dreaminess, he finds he excels at leadership and organization. Loves to solve complex problems and work doggedly toward solutions. Such skills are at odds with other parts of his nature, but he doesn’t question them.

Still, despite all of these strange happenings and inconsistencies, his nightmares, his wistful imaginings, the feeling of loss that curls its way endlessly behind his collar bone like a cold uroboros, he manages to create a successful life for himself. He meets and marries a brilliant, beautiful woman, buys a nice house in a good neighborhood, and works his way to the position of VP of marketing at a successful firm in London. 

The lost feeling doesn’t ever go away though. If anything, it only grows more pervasive as he ages. When he’s a child, it feels simple and wistful, this hole inside him. As a teenager, it makes him appear deep and moody and actually helps his chances with the local girls. Now, in his early 40s, it’s not wistful, nor is it attractive. And it is becoming harder to bear. 

He goes to therapy, talks about his childhood, picks through the collection of traumas everyone has, looking for the one that is most likely to have caused these feelings. 

He had a close friend in childhood who died of Leukemia, but while he misses Rick Thompson’s friendship, he was eleven when Rick died, and the empty feeling has been around since his earliest memories. So it can’t be Rick. 

His father left the house when he was seven. And though his father was a horrible drunk and a miserable man, and his mother and brothers breathed a sigh of relief when David Reader walked out and never came back, he does feel a person-shaped hole in the middle of his chest. And so he settles uneasily on the idea that it might be his father he misses. It fits with his therapist’s worldview as well, and she nods knowingly when he suggests that perhaps it’s the lack of a paternal figure in his life that makes him suffer.

Regardless of why he feels this way, It’s definitely associated with a person. With the loss of a person. Like those stories of people who have a twin that dies at birth. He even goes so far as to ask his mother (feeling frightfully silly as he does so) if such a thing transpired. She laughs and tells him that she's only ever had the three, he and his two brothers, and three was quite enough.

He tries antidepressants and they do nothing, and so he weans off them and stops after a year of taking pills that affect his melancholia as much as corner store candies. 

It doesn’t make sense, but it remains, a hollow ache behind his breastbone. A tug at his heart that won’t let him be. 

These feelings eventually cause his wife, Caroline to ask for a divorce. She wants children, and is still young enough to have them, and doesn’t want a distant, sad man to be their father. At first her decision feels stunningly cruel, but after some weeks spent drinking too much and feeling sorry for himself, he realizes that she's right. And whatsmore, he doesn't feel well equipped to be a father, nor does he think that children will be the answer to his endless on and off melancholy, his wistful dreaminess. Many people feel fulfilled by parenthood, but he doubts that he's one of them. He eventually finds peace with their separation and decides to go it alone for a while. Why saddle anyone else with his increasing moodiness?

After the divorce, he disappears into his work. Spends long hours of overtime at the office. The company thrives under his management and hard work. His soul unfortunately does not. 

His older brother Sam’s birthday is coming up, and he knows the man loves books and so he heads down to the local used book shop. He’s walked past it a hundred times, but hasn’t ever gone inside. He doesn’t read often. There just never seems to be enough time to read for pleasure, and so bookshops are a thing largely uninvestigated by him. Sam on the other hand is a voracious reader.

The bell atop the door chimes as he opens it and steps into a dimly lit, musty shop. He’s confronted with row upon row of old books, their flaking spines and faded leather bindings in rickety looking shelves that stretch off into the shop, and feels immediately overwhelmed by the profusion. There’s a polite looking young woman up at the counter, her honey blond hair pulled back into a neat bun, a pair of wire rimmed spectacles balanced on her pert nose, and so he walks over to ask her if she has any recommendations. Something related to history. His brother Sam is obsessed with 19th century naval expeditions, especially the Franklin expedition in particular. He’s like a boy playing pirates. He loves to read about adventure. Marc meanwhile prefers sci fi blockbusters. Likes his adventures high tech and unrealistic. Thinking of all those poor, scurvy ridden young men, trapped in those old, rickety ships, dying in droves, depresses him. 

The girl’s eyes light up and she asks him to wait, and walks off down a side aisle. He can hear her talking to a man, another shop employee he assumes, and stands patiently by the counter, resisting the urge to pull out his mobile and check his work emails for the fiftieth time today. 

He hears two sets of footsteps coming back up the aisle, and soon, the girl reemerges. Following her is a handsome man in his late fifties, early sixties with salt and pepper hair and a tall, sturdy build. He’s dressed like some sort of low-key professor type, in a tweed jacket over a worn black t-shirt. He’s talking to the young woman as they approach and for a moment he doesn’t see Marc, but then he glances up, and their eyes meet. 

Marc feels the world tilt a little bit as the man’s dark eyes settle on his face. He feels faint, mildly nauseated and he swears there’s a deep, disturbing, creaking noise, like a great, old wooden house settling down for the night, but magnified tenfold, reverberating in the air around them. He can’t move. He can’t speak. His mind is flooded with (by now) familiar images he still can’t quite piece together. Rocks and ice and dark stains that might be blood. They’re the images from his dreams, and to have them intrude on his waking mind is deeply concerning and disorienting.

The other man isn’t moving either. Just staring at Marc with his mouth gaping open. Marc is distantly aware that the sales girl is patting the man on the shoulder and saying something to him, though in his confused state, Marc can’t tell what. 

Eventually, he pulls himself out of the vision/minor panic attack/minor stroke he’s just experienced and shakes his head to clear it. “Um. Hello,” he manages, swallowing thickly past the lump that’s now risen in his throat. He feels like crying and he has no earthly idea why. 

“Are you alright?” the girl asks, and it takes Marc a moment to realize that she’s actually speaking to the tall man with graying hair, not to him. It appears the other man was at least somewhat similarly affected by the sight of Marc, and has a stunned look on his face. _How strange_.

His mundane greeting seems to break the spell for the other man however, who blinks and offers Marc a small distracted smile. “Hello,” he says. “Do I know you? You look very familiar.”

Marc, still reeling a bit from the abrupt change in mood, is surprised to find that he agrees. The man looks very familiar indeed, like a friend from school who’s aged or changed their hair, and now he can’t quite place them. “Yes, I feel the same way,” he says. He holds his hand out, hoping well worn social rituals will carry them through this bizarre circumstance. “Marc Reader,” he says, still feeling a whirl of unfamiliar sensations every time their eyes meet. 

“Scott Tutor,” the man replies, taking Marc’s hand in his large, warm one and shaking it. Marc feels the warmth of the man’s hand travel up his arm and into his chest. _What is happening_ he wonders. 

“Hey! Tutor and Reader!” The girl exclaims smiling nervously at the both of them. “That’s a funny coincidence no?” She’s clearly trying to break the bizarre tension that’s cropped up so suddenly between her coworker and this customer. 

Scott shrugs. Marc can’t stop looking at him, and he knows it’s not appropriate, that the man might think he’s being fresh, but he feels a magnetic pull towards this absolute stranger, and it's doing his head in a little. 

He realizes he's staring again and looks down at his feet, chuckles to break the tension. “It’s funny. I’m not really much for reading books. My friends make fun of me for it, because of my name. I’m here to find a gift for my brother for his birthday. He devours books. He’s the reader… Reader haha.” He forces out a strained laugh at his own daft attempt at a joke, striving to regain some sense of composure.

"Well, we'll see what we can do,” Scott Tutor says, apparently having shaken off his own disorientation, and if he’s not going to draw attention to it, then Marc certainly won’t. “Katie here tells me your brother is interested in books on the Franklin expedition?” The man raises his thick dark brows and looks expectantly at Marc, and Marc struggles to focus. 

“Yes! Yes, ever since we were kids. He became obsessed. Read every book on the subject, watched every documentary. When they found the Erebus, back in 2014, and then the Terror two years later, it was like he’d won the lottery. So, I’m not certain you’ll be able to find a book he hasn’t read, but perhaps a first edition he doesn’t own? He tends to buy his books from Bloomsbury and the like, not from small shops, so I’m hoping to impress him.”

“You see!” Katie bounces excitedly a bit at Scott’s elbow. 

Marc feels confused for a moment until Scott enlightens him. “I’m sort of the local unofficial Franklin expert,” he says, grinning sheepishly. 

Marc smiles. “Well, that _is_ a lucky coincidence.” 

“Follow me,” Scott says. “I might have just the thing you’re looking for.”

Marc follows the other man back into the shelves, still feeling a tad disoriented. He can’t help but let his eyes play over the sleek fall of the man’s steel gray hair and his thick shoulders and wonders what’s gotten into him. He’s never been repulsed by the idea of sex with men, just not particularly drawn to it either. But something about this man is making him hot under the collar, and it’s as confusing as whatever had happened in the front of the shop a few moments ago. 

Scott stops in front of a section of shelving and searches until he finds an ancient looking leather bound volume and pulls it out with thick yet deft fingertips. “Now this, this is one I admit I’ve been hiding from your average customer. I wanted to sell it to someone who would really appreciate it, not a tourist, or someone with lots of money and a passing interest. It’s a book by Franklin’s great nephew, and it details his experiences spending time with his great aunt, Franklin’s wife, Jane. It contains a lot of details about her tireless efforts to find the missing ships, her advocacy to clear her husband’s name of any wrongdoing after his death was discovered. I am almost certain your brother won’t have a copy as it is one of only 60 first editions. Published in 1902.” 

“Oh, wow, yeah, that would be brilliant! But I couldn’t take it, knowing it’s so rare,” Marc is touched by the offer, but it seems like too great a sacrifice to let the book go if it really was that valuable.

“Don’t mention it. Clearly your brother is an enthusiast and he sounds like a stand up fellow. I just hope he enjoys it.” Scott hands the book to Marc and Marc reaches out to take it, still not certain he can accept such a thing, but his brain is on autopilot at the moment. His fingers accidentally brush against Scott’s on the binding of the book, and suddenly, he feels faint again. They’re standing between two rows of shelves that rise a few feet above them on either side, and there’s a strange jolt of claustrophobia (unusual for Marc, who’s normally fine with tight spaces) and an incongruous swell of something that feels like affection. He sways on his feet and Scott’s hand comes up to grip his shoulder.

“Hey, are you alright?” The man’s dark eyes are looking intently at him, but then, they lose focus and it’s Scott who sways. He quickly transfers his hand from Marc’s shoulder to support himself against the nearest shelf, and Marc can hear the loud click of his throat as he swallows. “Now that’s a funny thing,” he says weakly. 

“You felt it too?” Marc peers at him, still reeling a little bit from the strange combinations of sensation, the anxiety mixed with sentiment. 

“I felt something. Maybe a blood sugar drop. Haven’t eaten since breakfast,” Scott replies, he grins at Marc to let him know he’s OK, but there’s a stiffness to the expression that belies his light tone. Unsure of what to say, Marc turns and leads the way back to the front of the shop, the book clutched in his hands, his heart hammering and his head fogged by confusion. 

Once there, Scott steps behind the counter to ring him up. “That’ll be twenty five pounds even,” he says.”

“Really?” Marc is surprised. “I’d have thought it would be a lot more expensive.” 

“I’m giving you the Amature Historian’s Brother Discount” Scott replies, smiling, and his eyes crinkle in the most delightful way as he holds out the book in a paper bag for Marc to grab. This time, Marc is careful not to touch Scott as he reaches out and takes the book. 

“Well thank you,” he says with an answering smile. “You’ve just made my brother’s year.” 

“Happy to help,” Scott runs his fingers through his hair and Marc is struck again by his handsomeness. They’re standing there, staring at each other, and Marc has to pull his eyes away from Scott’s to look down at the book, his cheeks heating. 

“Well, thanks again,” he says lamely. He wants to stay and talk to Scott for longer, but he doesn’t have the presence of mind to come up with a reason why.

“No problem,” Scott says. “If you can, stop back in and let me know what he thought. I’m here every day. I own the place.” 

_Perfect._ Now Marc has an excuse to come back. “I’ll do that!” he enthuses. “Have a good day,” 

“You as well.” Scott gives him another warm smile and Marc finds that he has to tear his eyes away from the man’s face and force his feet to walk out the door. Standing on the pavement outside, he feels as if he’s woken from a long dream. _What on God’s green earth just happened?_


	2. Chapter 2

Marc walks numbly back to his flat and up the stairs. His mind is filled with convoluted images and burning questions. Who is this far too-familiar stranger? Why does he find the man so astoundingly attractive after a lifetime spent happily shagging women? And what of the strange spell of dizziness and odd feelings that clearly affected both of their senses when they’d met. 

He wraps the book for his brother in paper with ship’s anchors and mermaids on, and puts it into a gift bag left over from Christmas. He stashes the book on the top shelf of his closet, so that Sam won’t see it and ask questions if he stops by before his birthday celebration, and tries to put the whole bizarre situation out of his mind. 

He fails miserably. 

It seems he cannot stop thinking about Scott Tutor. The man’s dark eyes and smiling face, his large, expressive hands on the binding of the book he holds out to Marc, play over and over in Marc’s mind. His brother’s birthday dinner is scheduled to take place Sunday night, and it’s only Thursday. That means he’ll have to wait until at least Monday morning to see the man again. He pictures running back to the shop, bright and early like some eager school boy, and realizes he should probably wait until a normal hour. When  _ do _ second hand bookshops open anyway?

It dawns on him that he knows nothing about the place, and so he grabs the paper bag the book originally came in from the trash bin. The shop’s name, “Tutor’s Books” is printed on the cover, along with an address and phone number. He googles the shop, finding out that Scott opened it in 2007. It has lots of good reviews, people raving about the helpful staff and praising the shop for it’s obscure selection of hard to find volumes. There’s even a picture of Scott on the bookshop website, in yet another frumpy professorial jacket, his hair flopping into his eyes, staring warmly at the camera. Marc feels his belly and chest flood with heat and his cheeks start to burn as he stares at the photo. 

Ok, so he has a crush. On a man. Stranger things have happened. It’s not unheard of for people to suddenly find themselves attracted to a member of the same sex after a lifetime of being straight. It happened with his cousin and her girlfriend, Sandra. Sandra simply ticked off all the right boxes for Christine. They still live together, quite happily, in a little house out by Swindon. 

Marc isn’t homophobic. He’s even kissed a couple of blokes while drunk, as part of spin the bottle games in secondary school. Nothing wrong with blokes. Just because he hasn’t shown any interest in men romantically or sexually, it shouldn’t be shocking that he’s hit with this strange attraction out of the blue. Only, he wishes he had more context for it. More evidence. He doesn’t know this man, other than his name and the fact that he owns a bookshop and knows a lot about mid 19th century naval history. If they’d worked side by side on a project for weeks, or if they’d become friends first, it would go a lot further toward explaining the sudden depth of feeling he has for this stranger. 

And what of the visions? The sensations of claustrophobia? The urge to cry. The swells of affection that bloom out of nowhere when he’s near Tutor? None of this has an easy explanation. 

What feels like an eternity later, Sunday night arrives. Marc gets to his mother’s house, the agreed upon meeting spot for Sam’s birthday dinner, and there’s hugs and greetings all around. They (Marc, Sam, their brother Robert and their mother), sit down to a meal of Shepherd’s pie (Sam’s favorite) and glasses of red wine, and chat amiably until it’s time for cake. Their mother has made a carrot cake, another favorite of Sam’s, and festooned it with candles until the top of the poor thing is filled with holes. It’s a family joke. Put as many candles as will fit atop each birthday cake so that it’s blazing. When they were kids, Marc and his brothers had adored the practice because it made them feel older and special. As adults in their 40 and 50s, it’s morphed into a joke on old age. 

After cake, Sam opens his presents. His eyes light up when he sees the book and he grabs Marc in a fierce hug with an arm around Marc’s neck. “Thank you Marc!” he exclaims, his round face suffused with a happy grin. “This is fantastic! I didn’t know there were any copies left for sale! Where did you find it?”

“A little second hand book shop down the street from my flat, if you can believe it,” Marc smiles, happy that his gift has been well received, but even happier that he’ll have good news to report to Scott Tutor on Monday. 

Sam is leafing through the book and exclaiming over different passages when what feels like an obvious a question strikes Marc. “Why was it you got so involved with all this Franklin expedition stuff? Seems a funny thing for a kid to be interested in from a young age.”

He’s surprised when his mother and brothers all stop what they’re doing to stare at him.

“Don’t you remember Marc,” his mother says. “It was you. When you were a wee baby. You wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“Well, to be fair,” Sam cuts in, “he wasn’t talking about the Franklin expedition  _ in particular. _ But,” he turns back to Marc, “you kept going on and on about ships and ice and water. You’d babble away about it night and day for a while. It was the oddest thing.”

“Oh! Remember John!” his brother Robert chimes in, and suddenly there’s a chorus of “John! John!” around the table and everyone is chuckling. 

Marc stares at them uncomprehendingly. “What are you on about?” He asks, feeling completely left out. 

“It was the first word out of your mouth,” his mother says. “The name John. You’d say it over and over. It was frightfully strange as there are no Johns in the immediate family, and you were so very young. When you weren’t talking about ships and boats and ice, it was John this and John that.”

“Yeah, it was the strangest thing,” Sam chimes in. “I went to the librarian at the school to ask what John and ice and ships might mean and she said it sounded like the Franklin expedition. His name being Sir John Franklin and all. So I started reading up on it. The rest, as they say, is history.”

“But… that’s…” Marc is at a lack for words. “Why didn’t anyone tell me this sooner?”

“Oh sweetheart, we did,” his mother says, putting a warm hand on his shoulder. “We told you when you were old enough to understand it, and you got very upset, started crying and carrying on, so I let it be. I brought it up again when you were a teenager, and you got upset then too. It put you in a foul mood, so we just stopped bringing it up. And to be honest, I sort of forgot about it. But regardless, you wanted nothing to do with it.” 

“That is bizarre,” Marc says, feeling a curious prickling sensation at the back of his neck and a twist in the pit of his stomach. “Weren’t you all unnerved when the new baby started going on about ships and icebergs?”

“Not really,” his brother Robert said. He’s the eldest, at 50 years of age. Then Sam at 48 and Marc, the youngest at 42. “Children say funny things,” Robert continues. “They get all sorts of daft ideas in their little heads.” He grabs Sam’s arm, “Oh! Remember what Suzanne’s Daphne said when she was three?” Suzanne is Robert’s girlfriend, and Daphne is her daughter from a previous marriage. “She looked up at Suzanne, calm as you please, and said ‘you’re not my mummy. My real mummy died when she got hit by a rock.’ I swear to you, clear as day!”

Sam nods enthusiastically. “I do remember you telling me that story. Poor Suzanne. She had the shivers over it for weeks. And we didn’t really think you were talking about some lost nordic expedition,” Sam turns to look at Marc again before shoving a forkful of carrot cake into his mouth. “It was just a coincidence really.”

It doesn’t  _ feel _ like a coincidence though. And these so-called coincidences are piling up a bit too high for comfort. The strange melancholy, the nightmares, the talk about ships and ice. Marc, meeting a man who’s an expert on the Franklin Expedition on the day he drops in to find his brother a birthday gift, and that man affecting him so strongly? It’s all starting to feel like some sort of Darren Aronofsky film. 

That night, after he gets back to his flat, and his heaping take home portions of Shepherd’s pie and carrot cake are safely stowed away in the fridge, he spends an hour or so doing a little research of his own. He’s surprised to feel familiar swells of anxiety and sadness and affection as he looks over the Wiki page on the Franklin Expedition. There’s too much information for his addled mind to comprehend, and it’s gone late, so he bookmarks the page and heads to bed. It’s difficult to fall asleep at first, as excitement over seeing Scott Tutor again causes all sorts of conflicting feelings. He tosses and turns for over an hour before finally drifting off.

He dreams of rows of bookshelves, swaying back and forth, tilting, as if adrift on some unseen tide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the thing Daphne says to her mother was a real statement made by my landlady's daughter when she was two years old. Kids have a reputation for saying eerie things at very young ages, and sometimes it's believed to be echoes of past lives. Take from that what you will. I just thought it was a cool detail.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, he heads over to Tutor’s Books at 11:30 am. A nice, respectable time to visit a bookshop. Rather than six in the morning, when Marc had woken from strange dreams to an incessant urge to see and talk to Scott again. He’d had to make coffee, answer some work emails, tell his assistant he’s taking the morning off. He takes a shower and puts on a nice pair of trousers and a dark shirt. He shaves and makes sure his short, reddish brown hair looks neat and orderly. It’s like he’s dressing up for a date, and the significance isn’t lost on him. 

He arrives at Tutor’s Books, and heart in his mouth, pulls the door open and steps inside. Scott is behind the counter, and he looks up when Marc walks in. Instantly there’s a recurrence of all the same disorientation, and Scott feels it too. Marc can tell by the way he grips the edge of the counter with white knuckled hands and huffs out a small, wounded noise. 

“Hello,” Marc says. “Did you feel that?” He has to support himself with a hand against a nearby shelf to keep from falling over.

“Yes,” Scott replies, a little breathless. “We should talk about it. Want to step into my office?” Marc readily agrees and follows Scott into a small, back room, containing a desk, a phone, a floor lamp and a few faded posters of wild flowers. Scott sits behind the desk and motions for Marc to take the rolling chair in front of it, and Marc gratefully sinks into it. 

“Yesterday,” Scott begins once he’s settled himself, “I didn’t want to make a big deal over it, seeing as you just came to the shop to buy a book. No need to stir up confusion and drama, you know? But then you came back. I hoped you would. And as we can both see, something is happening.”

“What is it you feel when you see me?” Marc asks immediately, jumping to the subject without preamble. He folds his hands in his lap and regards Scott curiously across the desk. “I’d like to hear what you think before I tell you my experience, because I want to reassure myself that I’m not mad.”

“You’re not mad,” Scott responds. “But I’m not sure what I can tell you that will make any sense. Last week when you came in here and I saw you…and I… well, it’s the strangest thing, I felt like we were both somewhere else.”

“Somewhere else?” Marc leans forward, intently focused. 

“Yeah. Somewhere dark and cold.”

“Was there this strange, creaking noise?” Marc hazards, narrowing his eyes.

“Yes! Like old wood or...like… I don’t know..”

“Like a ship?” The image comes to Marc all of a sudden, the dark hold of a ship. An old one. Not some new ocean liner, or a small sailing boat, the kind that zip by on the Thames. This ship was massive. Dark and old and creaking like a forest in the wind. 

“Could be, yes,” Scott looks contemplative. “Yeah, definitely, now that I think about it, a ship  _ would _ make sense. Wherever it was, it didn’t feel good.”

“Did you feel… sad?” Marc thinks he should be embarrassed, or maybe more socially uncomfortable than he is, but the conversation feels instantly warm and easy. As if he can’t say anything that would make Scott judge him.

“Yes,” Scott says, his voice wondrous. “Yes, I did. Very sad, but also...I don’t know... fond?”

“Yes!” Marc is wringing his hands a bit in excitement now, and he’s leaning in closer to Scott as they trade strange details back and forth. “Yes, I felt a deep affection. And that’s confusing, because I’ve never met you before, and I’m pretty sure it was ...directed at you.” He feels himself flush with heat at this admission. Perhaps he’s gone too far? Said too much? But Scott only smiles warmly at him and nods. 

“I felt the same thing. It was highly disorienting.”

There’s a moment of silence where they simply look at each other. Marc knows he’s staring again, but his gaze is caught by Scott’s kind, dark eyes, by the way they crinkle at the edges when he smiles at Marc. It's a soft, gentle smile. The sight of it makes those fond, sad feelings well up inside him again.

He watches as Scott presses his hand to his chest and takes in a deep, shaking breath. “There it is again,” he says, his voice hushed, and Marc realizes they’re feeling the same things. 

“What in God’s name is going on here?” Marc asks. It’s a rhetorical question, as Scott looks just as confused as he is. 

“I have no idea. But whatever it is, it’s fascinating.” Scott looks thoughtful for a moment. “Were you thinking about me a lot since you came in here last week?” Marc opens his mouth to respond but Scott cuts him off again. “And don’t feel like this is some sort of come on. I mean, I  _ am  _ gay, but I’m not trying to seduce you or anything. This isn't some elaborate scheme-”

“No, no, don’t worry about that,” Marc waves away the older man’s concerns with a dismissive motion of his hand, feeling a small stab of disappointment that Scott’s made it so very clear that he’s not trying to hit on him.  “I have been,” he responds out loud, “been thinking about you since Thursday,” he elaborates. “A lot,” he adds, because it’s the truth. He’s been practically obsessed with Scott for days on end. 

“Same here. And don’t get me wrong, you’re an attractive bloke, but this felt like an… I don’t know… an unusual amount of fixation. Out of the ordinary for the small amount of time we spent in each other’s company.”

“Precisely,” Marc replies. Then he takes a deep breath in preparation for what he wants to say next. “By the way, I’m straight,” he says, blushing again at the subject matter, so familiar and intense for two literal strangers. “I felt you should know that. At least, that’s what I’ve always believed about myself. But the thoughts I’m having about you... well… Let’s just say they’re rather romantic in nature.” He tactfully doesn’t mention the  _ other _ sorts of thoughts. The ones where he pictures pushing Scott down on the nearest flat surface and snogging him silly. The thoughts where he seriously entertains the idea of fellatio, and has wanked to it a couple of times already. No need to go there right now… 

Scott looks down at his hands on the desk and Marc is pleased to see that his cheeks have turned ruddy. It feels good not to be the only one who’s embarrassed. “Yes, same here,” he says. “And like I said, I date men. So your gender isn’t what’s surprising to me. It’s the fact that I barely know you. And yet..”

“And yet we can’t stop thinking about each other.” Marc finishes. Scott nods, his eyes coming back up to meet Marc’s, and there it is again, a swaying, swelling, dark sensation, full of fear and hope and he has to shake his head to clear it away enough to think straight. “Jesus, there it goes again,” he murmurs.

“What are your thoughts on reincarnation?” Scott asks, and Marc just stares at him for a moment. 

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Reincarnation,” Scott says. “It would explain a lot.”

“Oh, well, I suppose I’d never thought about it before. Seems sort of silly really.”

Scott frowns. “Several billion people hold it central to their religious practices across the globe,” he remarks. 

“Well, that doesn’t necessarily make a thing not silly,” Marc responds, and Scott shrugs. “But what do  _ you _ think about it?” Marc asks. “Do  _ you _ believe in it?”

“I’m honestly not sure,” Scott replies. “I’ve read a number of books on the subject, and they delve pretty deeply into reincarnation beliefs across lots of different cultures. And virtually all of them talk about visions interrupting their daily lives. Fragments of images and feelings intruding into their waking and dreaming minds.”

“Do you have these visions too?” Marc asks, surprised he hasn’t asked it sooner. 

“I do,” Scott says. “And dreams. About ice. And rocks. And dark places.”

“Oh Jesus,” Marc is just now remembering the conversation he had with his family over dinner the night before. This information, of how he’d chattered on about ships and ice as a two year old, it kept slipping away from him. Had for all his life apparently, but this conversation brought it back into clear focus. 

“What is it?” Scott asks, concern making him furrow his brows and lean toward Marc. 

“When I was a little child, two and three years old as my mother tells me, because I have no memory of it, I used to... say things.” 

“What sorts of things?” Scott narrows his eyes.

“Apparently, I would talk about ice and ships a lot, and water.” Marc feels silly saying it, but not nearly as silly as he would telling anyone else, as Scott is at least keen on listening. He feels an unpleasant surge in his chest at the recurrence of the subject. 

Scott leans back in his chair and lets out a deep sigh. “Me too,” he says. 

“What do you mean ‘me too’?” 

“I mean my mother and father told me the same thing. When I was little, I’d cry and carry on a lot about the ice. And the cold. And apparently, I wouldn’t stop saying ‘Henry’. The only Henry in the family was a distant cousin, who moved to America twenty years prior, and we rarely spoke of him, so they had no idea who I was on about.”

“John,” Marc says, feeling his blood run cold and tingles of apprehension skitter across his scalp. “I kept saying John.” 

“What? You can’t be serious.” Scott is staring at him with his mouth hanging open, and Marc is doing the same. They must both look rather daft.

“Yes, serious as the grave,” Marc replies. “I have no memory of saying any of it. I was very young. And my mum said she tried to tell me about it a few times when I got older, but I’d get really upset and so she stopped. Me going on and on about ice and ships and cold and saying ‘John’, is the reason my older brother Sam did some research at the local library and got interested in the Franklin expedition.”

“This is beyond bizarre,” Scott runs the fingers of both hands through his salt and pepper hair and looks thoughtful for a moment. His eyes narrow and he peers at Marc. “This isn’t some sort of prank? You weren’t sent here by my friends, to set me up for a massive private joke did you?”

“I’d ask the same of you,” Marc smiles wryly. “I swear it, I’m telling you the truth.”

“I think we should see someone,” Scott says, and Marc frowns, momentarily lost. 

“What sort of someone?”

“Like some sort of past life hypnotist.”

“You’re joking,’

“Not at all,” Scott smiles at him, and it’s a mischievous smile, full of excitement. It’s catching and Marc feels his own lips begin to curl at the edges in response. “Haven’t you ever seen films about this? People find out they’ve lived past lives and they get regressed through hypnotherapy and find out all sorts of things.”

“Yeah, but usually isn’t that all bollocks? Like isn’t it just stuff they make up, out of the blue? Or aren’t people led by the therapist to make conclusions they’re expected to make?”

“Perhaps,” Scott admits with a small nod. “But it could be worth it to try..”

“When? Where?” Marc hates to admit it, but he’s instantly curious. Hypnotism has always struck him as a bit dodgy, but this is a mystery too enticing not to want to do whatever it takes to solve it. Also, he’s keen to spend more time with Scott. Even if it involves visiting some quack hypnotherapist. 

“I can do some research,” Scott says. “When would you be free?”

“Anytime,” Marc says right away, before flushing a bit over his eagerness. “My job has a bit of flexibility to it. So if you let me know, I can move things around.”

“Excellent.” 

“Are you free right now?” Marc asks. “I mean, I don’t want to take you away from your work, but I’d really like to keep talking to you.” He means to say  _ I’d really like to spend more time with you _ . But that’s a bit forward for a second meeting with the man. 

“I’m not technically completely free, because I have to watch the shop, so if a customer comes in, I’ll need to go up front, but you’re welcome to spend as much time here as you’d like. I know a good sandwich shop around the corner, if you care to have lunch with me…”

Marc nods, smiling. “I’d like that a lot,” he says. It’s a massive understatement. In truth, he wants to spend as much time as possible talking to Scott, learning about Scott, talking about this fascinating connection they have. 

They spend the entire day together, having a lunch of takeaway sandwiches and crisps around 1, and talking every minute that there isn’t a customer actively speaking to Scott. They tell each other about their childhoods, their days at uni, their hobbies, interests, feelings on a broad range of subjects. Marc learns that Scott used to be an English teacher at a boy’s school, from the mid seventies to the mid nineties, and how he quit after twenty years when they discovered he was gay and tried asking him to resign. How they’d tried implying that because he likes sex with men, he’d somehow be unable to keep his hands off the boys he loved and taught, and how that broke his heart. He told Marc about his string of fix it man jobs and private tutoring jobs until he finally opened the book shop. 

Marc tells Scott of his position as VP of marketing and his marriage and divorce, his family. Scott has a sister and brother, both younger. Marc is the youngest of three brothers. They chat effortlessly for hours, and Marc has to email his assistant and tell her that something has come up and he’ll take the whole day off. He makes a brief call to help her rearrange his schedule, and then he and Scott are back to talking, like old friends.

Marc would feel more selfish at monopolizing the other man’s time if Scott exhibited even the slightest indication that he was growing tired of Marc’s company. But instead, Scott’s eyes light up every time Marc speaks, and he appears to hang on Marc’s every word. It’s heady and intoxicating, and Marc wonders more than once how much this fascination and attraction he feels for Scott is due to their mysterious connection. They’ve both admitted that their feelings feel fueled by something indefinable and beyond their comprehension, and he’d hate it if what he’s feeling is the cause of some strange echoes of the past, not based in his real life and real preferences. 

This very subject comes up near the end of the day. Scott has closed up the shop and they end up standing on the pavement, looking at one another. The conversation has tapered off for the moment, and they’re just gazing into each other’s eyes like a pair of daft fools. The air between them (a separation of about two feet at this point) is sparking with a dangerous sort of promise, and Marc feels more swells of affection come up inside him, like waves on the ocean. 

“I think,” he says, just as Scott also starts to speak, and he falls silent and motions fervently for Scott to continue, curious about what the man had been about to say. 

Scott takes a deep breath before continuing. “I erm… I wanted to address the attraction we’re both feeling. I think it’s wise, at this point anyway, to refrain from any sort of ...physical interactions between us. And I’m not trying to flatter myself here,” he rushes to add. “I know you’re straight, and I don’t want to assume anything about your experience of this, but from where I’m standing, I, well, I’m feeling very drawn to you.” 

Marc nods to show he agrees. “Yes, I feel it too,” he adds, smiling shyly. He can’t tell Scott that feeling ‘drawn to him’ is a vast understatement, so he lets it rest there. “And I agree. We should keep things platonic. At least until we learn more about what’s going on between us.” 

“Yes, that would be prudent,” Scott is smiling warmly again. “I’ll text or call when I find out more about the hypnotherapy.” They’ve exchanged mobile numbers and addresses during the day, and Marc nods. Scott extends his hand. “It’s been a pleasure Marc. I’ve really enjoyed talking with you today.”

Marc takes Scott’s hand and shakes it, and again feels that warmth from the man’s large palm and fingers travel up his arm and straight to his heart. Before he can stop himself, he’s pulled Scott into a fierce embrace. Scott returns the hug with immediate intensity and for a long moment, they just stand there, arms wrapped around each other. Marc can feel Scott’s heartbeat through his chest where it’s pressed against his own, and he can smell the tea and paper smell of Scott, his spicy shampoo and the subtle whiff of some aftershave that makes his head spin. He feels tears well up in his eyes for some reason, and rather than start sobbing onto the shoulder of his new friend, he presses a chaste kiss to Scott’s stubbled cheek and pulls himself regretfully out of Scott’s embrace. 

“Well, I’ll be seeing you,” he mumbles, and Scott gives him another of his warm smiles. The other man’s eyes look a bit misty too, and Marc again has to tear himself away, break their eye contact with a force of will and turn to walk off down the street. 

That night, after he’s brought himself to a stunningly good orgasm while wanking to thoughts of Scott, thoughts involving the man’s large hands and the silky fall of his silver hair, he drifts off into a deep and dreamless sleep. It isn’t until the next morning that he realizes that the empty feeling in his chest is all but gone.


	4. Chapter 4

Scott texts the next afternoon.  _ I’ve found a hypnotist. When can you drop by to talk about it? Or should I call? _ Marc feels his heart begin to race as he sees the text come in. He’s in a meeting, so he quickly texts back  _ Can I stop by the shop after work? Around 6? Is that too late?” _ A minute later, his phone buzzes again.  _ That’s fine,  _ but  _ it’s better to come by my flat. You have the address yes? _

_ Yes, see you at 6 _ . 

He’s ridiculously excited to be hearing from Scott again, and the prospect of going to the man’s flat has him struggling to concentrate on the rest of his work day. At 5:30, there’s an issue with accounting that takes some doing to clear up and it’s 6pm before he’s managed to put out the series of fires it’s caused. He texts Scott immediately  _ Running a bit late. ETA 6:30 _

_ See you then! _ Comes the chipper reply, and Marc smiles down at his mobile like a blasted fool. 

He takes the time to pick up a bottle of wine on the way over. He knows alcohol consumption around Scott is probably not a good idea, but he’s been brought up to bring a gift when he visits someone’s home, especially for the first time, and wine is easy. He selects a nice Merlot and takes a cab over to Scott’s flat, several streets from his office. 

He’s buzzed in immediately, and soon, he’s in Scott’s cozy living room. There’s braided rugs on the floor and the walls are festooned with paintings, tapestries, and what looks like a vast collection of African masks, Native American and Inuit art and artifacts. Scott says he’s been collecting the pieces for most of his life. All the other available space is taken up by rows of books, neatly filed away on shelves, or stacked haphazardly on end tables. Scott takes the wine from Marc with a sunny smile and a heartfelt thank you and goes to the kitchen. He asks Marc if he’d like some now, and Marc says yes, immediately promising himself to only have one glass. Scott uncorks the wine and brings them both a half-full glass, and they settle in together on the sofa, several feet apart. Farther apart than Marc wants them to be.

“Are you hungry?” Scott asks, once they’ve chatted politely about each other’s work day. “I'm being a terrible host as I tend to eat early.” 

“I am actually, but you don’t have to bother yourself,” Marc replies. “I can order something for delivery.” 

“Nonsense,” Scott says, putting his tea down and heading into the kitchen. “Do you like cheese?” He calls over his shoulder.

“Who doesn’t?” Marc replies with a smile. He hears Scott tinkering around in the small kitchen for a few minutes, hears cabinets and the fridge door open and close a couple of times before the man returns with a serving plate. On it are red and white slices of tomato and mozzarella cheese, a dish of kalamata olives, a dish of humus and an assortment of crackers. 

“I hope this is Ok,” he says, placing the plate down in front of Marc. “I don’t have much in the way of a proper dinner, but I can’t stand not feeding my guests.”

“This is lovely!” Marc exclaims. He’s already piling mozzarella cheese and an olive atop a cracker and shoving it into his mouth, chewing happily. He adores being fed, and the food is delicious. 

While Marc eats, Scott tells him about the hypnotherapist he’s contacted. Turns out she’s a university friend of Scott’s from way back, and a talented psychologist, with a dual degree in psychiatry. She became fascinated with the subject of hypnotherapy after being put under in an attempt to deal with an unresolved childhood trauma, and took a training course in hypnotherapy. She mixes hypnotherapy with Cognitive Behavioral Therapy and guided meditation in her practice with many of her clients. She’s extremely excited to learn of their unusual circumstances and is willing to do a session or two with them to help them figure out what is happening to them. 

“That’s fantastic news!” Marc says while dipping a cracker in some hummus. “I won’t lie and say I’m not a little bit apprehensive, but I’m also insanely curious.”

“As am I,” Scott says. He pauses, thinking for a moment. “I tried to look up crew members of the Terror or the Erebus, because I’m almost certain we’re remembering events from men who went on that particular expedition. But as you can imagine, John and Henry were two of the most common men’s names of the time. I found twenty six Johns and seven Henrys among the 129 men on board both ships. If you consider that Harry is a nickname of Henry, there are seven Harrys. It’s a bit of an antiquated needle in a haystack situation” 

Marc chuckles despite himself. “That’s a lot of possible people,” he admits. “And if our John and Henry were… I don’t know, sweet on one another, it’s unlikely there’d be a record of it.”

“True. I can’t imagine being gay in 1845. Must have been atrocious.” 

“How was it for you, you know… growing up?” Marc asks. 

Scott takes a deep breath and another sip of wine. “Well, I was born in 1959. Yes, I know, I’m ancient.”

“You look ten years younger than that at least,” Marc rushes to say. He means it too. Scott is sturdily built and in good physical shape. He has thick, silky salt and pepper hair and warm crows feet around his soulful eyes. He’s gorgeous really, but Marc prudently keeps those particular opinions to himself. 

“You’re very kind,” Scott replies with a sly self effacing grin. “Anyway, in school, it was virtually impossible to have sex with anyone. I had crushes of course, but unless another boy approached me, and none did, it wasn’t worth the risk of being found out and ostracized, or worse. As the 80s turned into the 90s, things got a bit easier, and I was able to start dating, but still, being out and gay was a deeply subversive thing to do in most places. It cost me the job I thought I’d have until retirement. It cost me a lot of things. I did it though. Came out. I told my parents the minute I moved out of their house and told everyone who met me. It’s who I am, and while it doesn’t define my life, any more than you being straight defines your career or which friends you make or the color of your hair, it’s still a thing I was used to being judged and mocked and threatened for. So I had a strong need to put it first and foremost when I met people. To see who was really my friend, or who would turn tail and run, or make some crass joke.”

“You were very brave,” Marc says, feeling a fresh swell of admiration for the man sitting next to him on the sofa. 

“I didn’t really have a choice,” Scott replied. “It was that or spend a lifetime living in the closet, finding whatever partners were willing to be with me in total secrecy, opening myself up to abuse or latent derision. And lots of people didn’t have that choice to make. It was the closet or lose their place in society, their job, their relationships with friends or family. My family was blessedly understanding of my orientation. I was in a good place to come out and so I took it upon myself to do so.”

“I feel horrible that I’m just asking you this now, but are you single?” Marc asks, suddenly very invested in the answer. 

Scott grins again, and nods. “Yes. My last relationship was probably three years ago now. It ended amicably, but it sort of tore me up a bit, so I decided to take a break. You said you were divorced yes? Are you dating anyone?”

“Not since Caroline and I separated,” Marc says. “I just didn’t have the heart for it.” 

There’s a moment of silence while they both mull over what the other has just said. Marc feels Scott’s eyes on him and he doesn’t dare look up and meet the other man’s gaze. To do so feels dangerous. Like there’s explosive material involved here, and one small misstep, one jostle or spark will ignite it into a conflagration he’s not sure he can handle. Instead he stands up, begins pacing.    


“I’m really excited about this hypnotherapy session,” he says, hoping to disperse some of the insane sexual tension that’s crackling between them like heat lightning. “When can your friend see us?”

“She says she’s free on the fifteenth or the sixteenth, this coming Saturday and Sunday. Are you free?”

“Yes,” Marc says without hesitation. “Can we ask her to maybe put us under on both days, or at least, leave them both open? I have the distinct feeling this won’t be handled quickly or simply.” 

“That was my idea as well, and she’s agreed to see us on both dates if necessary. She’s quite fascinated by the implications of our mysterious problem, so she says she’s happy to be of service.” 

Marc nods in approval. “That sounds good. How are you feeling about all this?” He asks, finally finding the courage to look Scott in the face. The older man is wearing a wistful expression. 

“I’m intrigued by it. Thrilled really. It’s the strangest and most fascinating and profoundly affecting thing I’ve ever experienced. I’d be less astounded if I were suddenly abducted by aliens, or if I woke up one morning as a giant cockroach.” 

Marc chuckles at the Kafka reference and takes another small sip of his wine before putting his glass back down on the coffee table near the sofa. “I get what you’re saying. The whole thing is beyond belief, and fantastic and wild. I’ve had this aching, tugging, empty feeling inside me my whole life, quite painful really. And it’s eased up a lot lately.”

“That’s lovely,” Scott replies, and Marc can tell by the softness and wonder in his voice that he means what he says. That he’s glad for a lessening of Marc’s pain. “I’ve definitely had an empty feeling as well, but it isn’t so much a painful one. More a feeling that something indefinable has been missing from my life. A wistful sort of feeling. There’s regret, but it’s not a sharp emotional pain. It’s as if I lost a parent as a child and the grief has eased a lot since then, only my parents are still alive and well, if very elderly. I’ve lost a few friends in my life, to AIDS, to cancer, to drunk driving. But this feeling has been here for far longer. And lots of bizarre dreams of course.”

“It's interesting that our experiences are similar yet different. My feeling of missing is much sharper. It’s a feeling of loss. But yours sounds less painful and more… existential maybe?”

“Yes, that’s a good word to describe it. It’s that feeling that led me to take solace in books. I devoured books on history and geography, sociology, religion,” he waves a hand at the book shelves that line every available space along the walls of his sitting room. “It was as if there was some missing piece of information I was seeking. And as the years went by, I grew more and more drawn to the Franklin expedition. That’s another reason why I think this is connected to that specific voyage. Perhaps to two of those doomed men. I’ve studied hundreds of subjects in my day, and yet, those lost ships kept pulling me back, over and over, like some sort of beacon.”

“I can’t wait to find out more,” Marc says. And something in his voice must alert Scott to a message beneath his words, a hidden subtext of emotion, for the other man looks up and their eyes meet. There’s fire there. And longing. So much longing that Marc can’t help but suck in a sharp breath at the sight of it, reflected so strongly in Scott’s dark eyes, reflected in the depths of Marc’s own soul. “Oh Jesus,” he whispers. 

Everything is a bit of a blur then, but Scott is up off the sofa and walking toward him. A split second later, Scott has Mark’s face in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says gruffly. “I can’t seem to help myself. Can I..?”

“ _ Please _ ,” Marc says it in a rough whisper before he surges forward and presses his lips to Scott’s. Then Scott has him pushed up against a bookshelf and they’re kissing madly. Marc feels a sharp pang of lust spike through his loins and moans softly as the kiss deepens. It’s beyond arousing, beyond good. Scott’s arms wrap around Marc’s shoulders, and Marc’s hands come up to grip Scott at the hips. Their tongues meet and mingle in a wet rush of heat. Scott is being patient, holding still, but Marc can’t help but rut against him, hips bucking forward, eager and desperate for contact as he moans again against Scott’s mouth. He hears Scott make a low noise in the back of his throat and feels him press back, pressing Marc into the shelves behind him and there’s an explosion of heat where their bodies make contact. 

Waves of lust wash through Marc as he eats hungrily at Scott’s mouth, revels in the taste of the wine on his lips and feel of him, hard and ready against Marc’s hip. If there were any doubts about his sexual orientation being more fluid than he’d imagined, they’re burned swiftly away as Scott’s mouth and body move against his. This feels so  _ right _ , in every cell of him, down to his DNA. It feels right and good and fucking  _ hot. _

Scott has abandoned restraint now and is pressing their pelvises rhythmically together, and Marc is keening against his mouth. He starts pulling up at the hem of Scott’s t-shirt, slips his hands underneath and strokes at the soft, gently curled hair and silky skin of Scott’s stomach, making Scott gasp and thrust harder against Marc for a moment. 

Something about that more intimate touch though, that drag of fingertips against bare skin, seems to break Scott out of the trance of pure lust, and he steps back, panting, holding Marc at arms length and gently shaking his head. “We can’t,” he growls out, and Marc can hear how very difficult those words must have been to say. “Not until we know what’s happening here. Not until we see if these feelings are still around after the hypnotherapy.” 

Marc is gasping as if he’s just run a marathon, and his cock is so hard it’s painful, throbbing against the confines of his trousers, but he nods regretfully, lets his head fall back against the shelves behind him and groans a bit in frustration. “You’re right,” he admits, breathlessly. “Of course, your right. I just.. I want to fuck you so badly right now.” 

“Yeah. same,” Scott turns and walks away, runs his hands through his hair again and stands with his back to Marc, his shoulders rising and falling with his labored breathing, hands laced behind his head. “It’s probably best if you leave, Henry, otherwise, I can’t be held accountable for what I’ll do next.” He giggles, a little hysterically.

“Scott,” Marc says, feeling a shiver of unease run down his spine. “You just called me Henry.” 

“Fuck, really?” Scott turns, hands falling to his sides, and stares at Marc, eyes wide with shock. “I didn’t even notice.” 

“Saturday can’t come soon enough.” Marc says with an ironic smile as he gathers his jacket and heads for the door. If he doesn’t leave immediately, he’ll throw himself back into Scott’s arms, and they can’t do that. Not yet. “I’ll text later about the details?” He asks as he pulls the door open and looks back at Scott.

“Yes, see you then. Good night. Stay safe,” Scott watches him leave with that same longing look and it takes every ounce of strength Marc has to walk out the door and close it between them. 


	5. Chapter 5

The intervening days stretch out like months. Marc and Scott have a brief text exchange during which Scott sends Marc the name and address of the therapist (Dr. Sofia Murkowski) and an arranged meeting time. They’ll meet there nice and early, at 10am. Dr. Murkowski doesn’t know how long it will take and wants to leave plenty of time. 

Other than that they don’t communicate. Marc knows that on his side, it’s because if he texts anything to Scott, it’s likely to move swiftly to a sexual or romantic mood. His fingers itch to grab his mobile and ask if he can come over. If he can climb into bed with Scott and learn the man’s body with his fingertips and his mouth. Instead he has a fantastic wank, and gasps Scott’s name when he comes. Or perhaps it’s “John” he cries out. He can’t be sure. 

He’s a little surprised at the abrupt change of direction of his sexual orientation and romantic inclinations, but it feels totally natural. He wonders if maybe he’d just been waiting this whole time for Scott to arrive before his desires for men surfaced. He tests himself by watching some gay porn, and while it’s technically quite impressive (he takes some mental notes for later), it doesn’t get much of a rise out of him. He thinks of he and Scott’s kiss, how their bodies had moved together and their mouths had blended with wet, slick heat, and he’s throbbing and rock hard in a matter of seconds.  _ Alright then _ . Apparently Scott is a rather intense exception to the rule.

He can easily tell that he’s still very attracted to women, and that’s a relief. It’s one thing to suddenly want to shag the living daylights out of one particular man. But having his entire orientation do a complete turnaround in a matter of days would have been extremely unsettling. It appears that Scott is special. That Marc desires Scott and no other men. At least for the time being. How curious. 

And in addition to desire, he’s still feeling those strong swells of affection for Scott. It’s love. He knows it is, but since it has no basis in history or experience, other than a few hours spent talking to one another and one rather thrilling snog session, he doesn’t trust it. And yet it remains, regardless of his lack of trust. He cares about Scott Tutor. He  _ loves _ Scott Tutor. Even if he doesn’t understand why. This abrupt swell of romantic feelings, deep fondness and a preoccupation for Scott’s well being is even more disorienting than the sudden spike of desire. 

He goes to work for the rest of the week in something of a haze, and has several coworkers ask him if he’s alright. He manages to focus on his work enough to get by, because fighting his urges to drift off into flights of fancy has been a thing he’s always done, and so he has practice staying the course. But still, it feels like an eternity. He longs to see Scott, and he can’t understand this connection yet, and the combination of pining and curiosity is driving him mad. 

Finally, Saturday arrives. He puts on nice yet comfortable clothing. A pair of jeans and a dark jumper, makes sure he looks presentable and takes a cab to Dr. Murkowski’s office. He’s beat Scott there apparently, and realizes he’s shown up 30 minutes early. He sits in the small waiting room outside her office and bounces his leg in agitated nervousness as the seconds tick by slowly on the face of the large clock on the wall opposite his chair. The waiting room is empty, and he contemplates knocking on the door to her office, but decides it’s best to wait until Scott arrives. 

Scott shows up fifteen minutes later, in a faded black t-shirt and a battered brown leather jacket that make him look like a romantic sort of world traveler who might own a motorbike. Marc stands and they embrace briefly yet fiercely before stepping apart and smiling at each other like idiots. Marc hasn’t felt this way since school. This giddy, sparking feeling of attraction and affection. Not since his first few romantic entanglements as a teenager. 

When he met and fell for Caroline, it had been a good thing, but far more measured and practical, entrenched in well worn hetero dating-leading-to marriage rituals. Dinners out. Flowers. Waiting three dates before you have sex with each other. None of that applies with Scott. Marc just desires him, body and soul, with every fiber of his being. Waiting to find out what lies behind this insane attraction (and resulting visions and sense that they are both two people at once) is the only thing keeping him from grabbing Scott and kissing him at this very moment. 

Scott looks similarly affected. His eyes play softly over Marc’s face and he can’t seem to stop grinning. They sit side by side and chat about their activities and thoughts over the past few days in a sort of pink cloud of smiles and blushes. It’s ridiculous. It’s marvelous. Marc wants very badly to hold Scott’s hand but he stamps down the urge. 

The door eventually creaks open and Dr. Murkowski pokes her head out and invites them in with a broad smile. She’s a short woman, plump, with curly, mostly silver hair like a wild halo, and the sort of face that crinkles up when she smiles. She seems very grandmotherly and welcoming, and her presence instantly relaxes Marc, who realizes belatedly that he’d been quite nervous. 

“Please, please, make yourselves comfortable,” Dr. Murkowski says after she and Marc have been introduced. “I can’t believe this situation you two find yourselves in. It’s all rather fascinating, and I jumped at the chance to be a part of it.” She takes a seat in an armchair in front of a small sofa in her office, while Marc and Scott sit on the sofa, carefully spaced so that their legs and shoulders aren’t touching. Boundaries feel important today. Everything feels important today. They’re embarking on what could be quite a thrilling adventure with this hypnotherapy session. 

“So, I’m not sure how familiar either of you are with hypnotherapy, but this isn’t stage hypnosis, the stuff where someone makes you bark like a dog or hop around on one foot. It’s medical board approved psychological hypnotherapy, and it is used to access repressed memories mostly. Or to calm anxiety, quit smoking, that sort of thing. I’ve no clue how it will work in finding out if the two of you are actually reincarnated dead navy men from almost two hundred years ago, but I’ll be damned if I don’t try my best to help you find out.” She beams at them both and Marc finds her smile infectious and smiles back. 

“I’m up for anything,” Marc responds, nodding eagerly. “I want this mystery solved so we can move on with our lives. I hope this helps.” 

“Me too,” chimes in Scott with a warm look in Marc’s direction. “We’ve both had quite the time of it, with strange dreams and sudden flashes of feelings and images. It’s been both of our whole lives apparently, and it’s time we dug into this and found out what’s beneath it.” 

“Good,” she says, then picks up a small audio recorder. “I want to record sound for our session and to obtain verbal consent to the proceedings from both of you. I won’t share the recording of what transpires in the session unless you both tell me explicitly that you want me to, but this is the easiest way to have a record of consent, and to cover me professionally, as this is an uncertain situation. Is that alright?” They agree, and so she clicks the record button and announces the date and time of the recording and asks both of them by name if they agree to be recorded. They both state that they do. 

“Alright then. Well, to get started, there are a few ground rules. If either of you feels uncomfortable during this process, I need you to speak up, and we’ll end it immediately. If either of you looks like you’re in pain, physically or even psychologically, past the level I think is healthy and useful for the sake of some sort of catharsis or discovery, I will pull you out of the hypnosis. If Scott decides he doesn’t want to go forward but Marc does, it ends. Same vice versa. We need both of you 100% on board to continue with any sort of therapy. If there’s any sort of violence, I end the session. If I have any fears for your physical safety for any reason, heart failure, panic attack, I call 999. Is that understood?”

They both tell her verbally that they understand. 

“Good,” she replies. “I’ll be getting both of you to a deeply relaxed state using a guided meditation. Have either of you practiced meditation before?” Both of them had, successfully, so she continues. “Once I’ve gotten you to a relaxed state, I’ll count down from ten to one, then ask you to state your names at that time, which will alert me to who it is that you perceive yourselves to be once you’ve reached a state of trance. From there, I’ll instruct you to open your eyes when I snap my fingers, and we’ll see what happens. If anything is amiss, I’ll end the session with a loud clap of my hands, which may be startling, but that’s sort of the idea. I don’t want to risk touching either of you, or using something as subtle as a finger snap. But, if nothing much happens, or if these images and perceptions you’ve both been experiencing allow for a measured session with nothing unusual about it, I’ll simply snap to realert you both. And I’ll explain everything as it happens, so don’t worry yourselves over remembering the sequence of events. I only want you to be informed. Now, are there any questions before we get started?”

Neither of them have any questions and so she asks them to get comfortable and close their eyes. Marc lets his eyes slide closed, settles in and tries to calm his sparking nerves. He can feel the subtle warmth of Scott next to him on the sofa. It’s reassuring.

“I want you both to take a deep breath, in through your noses and out through your mouths,” Dr. Murkowski says. Her voice has gone very soft and gentle and measured. It’s soothing, and Marc obediently takes a deep breath and hears Scott beside him do the same. 

“Keep breathing deeply, slowly, at an even pace, a little slower and deeper than you normally would in everyday life,” she instructs. “Let the breath move through you and relax your body. Feel your shoulders relax, the muscles in your face, your arms and legs. Let go of any tension you hold in your chest and stomach. Let the breath sweep all your tension away.” 

Her instructions are surprisingly helpful, and Marc lets out a long, relieved gust of air in an exhale and feels his shoulders and chest relax, feels his features go slack and his stomach muscles unclench. He’d been more wound up than he’d realized apparently. 

“Next I want you to think of a place that’s very familiar or very comfortable to you. Somewhere you feel relaxed or at home. This could be a place of business, a room in your house. Even a place from your past, a grandmother’s kitchen or a place you visited on holiday once. Picture yourself in that place, and fill it with as many details as you can.”

Marc pictures a beach in  Mykonos, Greece where he and Caroline went on their honeymoon. One day, she’d decided to do some sight seeing on her own for the morning, and he’d wandered down to the white beach with a towel, a large umbrella and his iPad so he could catch up on some work emails. He’d known he shouldn’t work on his honeymoon, but had felt drawn by the ever present tug of responsibility. Luckily, he hadn’t turned on the iPad. Instead, he’d lain on the towel, in the shade of the umbrella (being a red haired man with fair skin, he burns very easily) and had let the warmth of the Grecian sun soak into his bones. He’d heard the distant scream of sea birds and smelled the faint whiff of grilling fish and citrus on the breeze. It had been lovely and calming, and for once, the ache at the center of his chest had eased a little.

Now, sitting on Dr. Murkowski’s sofa, he conjures up an image of the crystal clear blue waters, lapping at the white sand. The sounds of tourists laughing and men on the fishing boats calling to each other. It’s very soothing, and he feels himself fall further into a relaxed state. 

“Have you both found that comfortable place? Nod to let me know.” the doctor asks, and Marc nods. Scott must have nodded as well, because she continues, her voice taking on a sing-songy sort of cadence, staying light and soft. “Good. Now what I’ll do is count down from ten to one. As I do this, with every number I say, I want you to sink deeper and deeper into a state of relaxation. When I reach the number one, your minds will be relaxed and clear and I’ll ask you both some questions.”

Marc nods again. 

“Excellent. Lets begin. Ten… nine…. Eight…” 

Marc feels his body melting into the sand, takes another deep breath and lets it out. 

“Seven….six….five….”

He feels his limbs become light, like a bird’s wings. Feels his outline start to blur at the edges.

“Four….three….two….”

He is Marc Reader… he is…. he

“One.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note that I am not a psychologist nor a psychiatrist. I did some basic research on drug dosages, and have a brother with bipolar disorder. I've taken ativan once, and it was very subtle, at least at the dosage I was given. I mean no disrespect to anyone who uses anti-anxiety medications, and if something I've said is super off the mark, let me know.
> 
> I do have some fairly extensive experience with meditation and guided meditation. 
> 
> Also, I am not attempting to relay the experiences of people with dissociative identity disorder. The events in my fic are entirely fictional (to my knowledge), so know that I am not trying to portray any actual, medically known disorders in my writing. Thank you!

Marc wakes with a violent jolt. His eyes fly open and he sees Dr. Murkowski’s face, full of concern, eyes wide and very close to him, peering into his own. He gasps, and tries to move his hands, but Scott has a hold of both of his wrists, holding them tightly and he also looks stunned and confused. Scott lets go of Marc’s wrists, and for a minute, all Marc can do is catch his breath and look wildly at his surroundings. 

“Wh- what happened?” he stammers out, his gaze going from Scott’s shocked face to Dr. Murkowski’s. The last thing he remembers is closing his eyes in a state of deep calm, and now his heart is beating like that of a frightened rabbit.

“Well, why don’t you catch your bearings and then we can talk about it.” Dr. Murkowski pulls away and goes back to her chair to retake her seat. She’s breathing a little hard as well, her plump cheeks flushed. Apparently, she’d gotten up to make certain they were both alright. Her expression looks a little as if she’s just worked very hard to put out a house fire, and Marc feels a stab of apprehension. 

He turns again to look at Scott, who is sitting, hands on his thighs, looking back at Marc with wild eyes, full of some unnamable emotion. 

After a few moments catching his breath, he asks Dr. Murkowski again what transpired and she lets out a long sigh. 

“Well, the hypnosis worked like a charm. First, I asked you who you were, and you both gave me different names. I’ve written them down here.” She looks around for a moment before she spots a yellow note pad that’s fallen face down on the floor, picks it up and squints at it. “Marc, you told me your name and rank was Henry Peglar, Captain of the Foretop on HMS Terror, and Scott, you told me your name and rank was John Bridgens, subordinate officers steward on HMS Erebus.” 

“John and Henry,” Scott says next to him, his voice just above a whisper. 

“Name and rank,” Marc says wondrously.

“I asked you to open your eyes, and the moment you did, you both seemed very confused by your surroundings. Then you saw each other, and, well…” She pauses, looking a little uncomfortable.

“What?!” Marc is leaning forward toward the doctor now, face intent. “What did we do?”

“Well, you were both very upset. There was a lot of crying, weeping really. You clung to each other and cried and said each other’s names several times. You eventually turned to me, and began asking me questions, and I had no idea how to answer them, so I aborted the session. I had to clap my hands a couple of times and call your names for you to come out of it” She looks sheepish for a moment. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t know what to expect, and being grilled by a pair of distraught mid nineteenth century ghosts from a lost arctic mission was a bit of a surprise. I didn’t want to upset them...or rather you, any further, and wanted to speak to you both before proceeding. I hope I didn’t do the wrong thing.” She looks almost as flustered and confused as Marc feels.

It’s then that Marc realizes his cheeks are wet, and looking next to him at Scott’s face, sees that the man has been crying too. More than that, his hair and shirt are rather disheveled. He looks down at his own clothing and sees that it’s similarly disarranged. “I’m sure you did the right thing,” he says absently, running fingers through his hair and leaning back into the sofa for a moment to gain his bearings.

“Do either of you remember any of it?” Dr. Murkowski asks, her eyes peering curiously at each of them in turn. 

Scott shakes his head. “Not a thing. I remember you calling my name, and then doing the same for Henry, and that he was crying fiercely.” It takes him a moment to realize that the other two people in the room are looking at him in concern. “What? What did I say?” he asks, perplexed. 

“You called me Henry again,” Marc responds, placing a hand on Scott’s forearm. 

“I don’t recall…” Scott looks perplexed and a little alarmed. 

“It’s alright John, you just had a scare,” Marc reassures him, and then it’s Scott and Dr. Murkowski’s turn to look at him in open mouthed surprise. 

“You just called me John,” Scott said, gazing steadily at Marc. 

“Bloody hell,” Marc replies. A sudden thought occurs to him. “Can we listen to the audio recording?”

“Yes! Yes of course. Silly me, I’d forgotten entirely. It’s still going actually.” Dr. Murkowski reaches for the small recorder still sitting on a nearby coffee table and clicks off the record button. She rewinds the recording, playing snatches of her instructions back at them until she reaches the right place, then pauses to look at them both. “This might be a little unnerving. You were both very upset.”

Marc looks at Scott, then they both nod. “We want to hear it,” Scott says. 

Dr. Murkowski hits the play button:

There’s a moment of silence and the sound of Dr. Murkowski’s voice 

_ Dr. Murkowski: Before you open your eyes, would you please tell me your names? _

_ Marc: Henry Peglar, Captain of the foretop, HMS Terror ma’am _

Then a moment later,

_ Scott: John Bridgens, subordinate officer’s steward on board HMS Erebus ma’am _

Both of their voices sound trance like, relaxed, at least for that moment. 

_ Dr. Murkowski: When I snap my fingers, would you both open your eyes please, and tell me how you feel and what you see? _

They must have nodded, because a snap resounds.

Another moment of silence. 

_ Scott: Henry? _

_ Marc: John? Dear God, John, is that you? _

_ Scott: Henry! Oh Sweet Lord in Heaven, Henry! Henry! _

_ Some rustling and muffled sounds of sharp breaths and sobbing.  _

Marc sneaks a sideways glance at Scott to see him looking back, his eyes at once sad and full of wonder. Marc, hearing his own voice, played back to him, saying things he doesn’t remember saying feels like he’s lost in some bizarre waking dream, and he knows Scott must be feeling something similar. 

Some time goes by during which only sobs and soft repetitions of their other names are heard, then Scott’s voice again.

_ Scott: Madam, please where are we? Who are you? What is this place? _

_ Marc: Please ma’am, we thought, we thought we were done for. How did we come to be here? _

_ Dr. Murkowski: I’m so sorry.  _ Then the sharp report of a couple of slaps of her hands.

Noise of Scott gasping and then his voice, small and uncertain, _ Sophia?  _

_ Dr. Murkowski: Marc! Wake up Marc! Come on! _

_ Marc: Wh- what happened? _

Dr. Murkowski stops the recording. “You both know what happened next,” she said, still looking regretful. “I have to apologize again if any of this was traumatic or upsetting to either of you. I didn’t expect a reaction this profound. I thought I’d be speaking to Marc and Scott about their strange dreams and visions, not Henry and John. Jesus. This is intense.” 

Scott turns to Marc and places a large, warm hand to his shoulder. “Are you alright?” He asks, his dark eyes tightening at the edges with concern. 

“I feel fine. A little confused,” Marc replies. “I don’t remember any of that. Do you?”

“No, nothing.” Scott says. I think we have some research to do. Now we have names and ranks.” He turns to Dr. Murkowski. “I think we also need to work on a game plan for tomorrow.” 

She nods. “That would be prudent. I felt wholly unprepared for what happened. I think, if these men’s… souls? Essences? Return, we need to be ready.”

“Are you up for it?” Scott asks. “I know it’s a lot. You didn’t sign on to be a therapist for two long dead Royal Navy sailors when you agreed to do this.” 

“Are you joking?!” Dr. Murkowski looks at him in astonishment. “This is the opportunity of a lifetime! I’ll be far better prepared next time.” 

They spend a few hours in discussion over how the second hypnotherapy session can be made easier. Marc suggests that they remove any obviously technological things from the room and bring in candles for light, as both of these men would be unnerved or highly confused by computer monitors and desk telephones. Dr. Murkowski will introduce herself as “Mrs. Merchant,” as Polish female doctors were not exactly growing on trees in the mid 19th century. 

They decide though, that while they’ll remove the obvious examples of modern technology from the room, to video record the experience so that they’ll have a better record of events, and Dr. Murkowski suggests setting her mobile up as a recording device on a bookshelf nearby. It’s unlikely to be noticed by the men, especially if partially hidden behind something innocuous. Both Scott and Marc agree that this is a good idea. Dr. Murkowski says she’ll work up a simple list of responses to obvious questions the men might ask and will email both of them for their approval and feedback later that afternoon.

Scott suggests that they take something to calm them down. A valium or a hefty dose of ativan, and at first Marc thinks that would be unnecessary, but then, considering how upset they both were during the first experience, he agrees. And it might also help dull the boundary between Scott/John and Marc/Henry a little. 

Dr. Murkowski agrees. “I’m not usually a proponent of drugs other than those used for clinical depression and anxiety, but I can’t see these men being able to handle the situation, the fact that they’re dead and inhabiting the bodies of two entirely different people, without panicking. Not to mention the likelihood that they both experienced unimaginable psychological traumas leading up to their deaths. I can get a mild sedative to help calm all your nerves.” She chuckles a little at referring to them as a collective, and Scott and Marc both laugh along, a little manically at the pure surrealism of the moment. 

After they’ve made as many arrangements as they can, it’s nearing two o’clock in the afternoon. They bid her good day and step out onto the pavement together. Scott asks Marc if he’d like to go to lunch and Marc agrees. He’s starving, he realizes, and wants more of Scott’s company, so they can talk in relative private about what transpired.


	7. Chapter 7

Once they’re seated at a nearby cafe, at a secluded table, and sandwiches and drinks have been ordered, Scott brings out his mobile phone to do some research on Bridgens and Peglar. Marc watches the other man’s eyes go wide at something on his mobile’s screen. 

“What?” He asks, “what have you found?”

“Portraits of the crew. It took some digging, but I found their portraits. Marc, you’re not going to believe this…” He turns his mobile phone around and shows him a zoomed in image of an old photograph. It’s of Scott. At least, it resembles him quite strongly. His longish, steel gray and dark hair, his prominent nose. His kind, dark eyes, all there, staring out at Marc from a durgotype photo. He’s wearing some sort of navy issue peacoat with metal buttons down both sides and he has that expression people always had in old photographs. Stoic and a touch proud of being memorialized. 

“Dear God,” Marc breathes. Scott turns the phone back to himself and taps and tweezes at the screen with his fingers before turning it back to Marc. “Check out this handsome devil,” he says, and there, on the screen is Marc. He sees his own eyes and nose and mouth. He’s bearded, wearing a similar uniform, and he looks boldly into the camera lens. “It’s me,” Marc says, feeling as if he’s inside a dream. 

“It is,” Scott replies, and something in his voice makes Marc look up at him. The other man has tears shimmering in his eyes. “Jesus Marc, it’s us. What is happening?”

Marc reaches across the table and places his hand over Scott’s. Scott turns his hand in Marc’s and clasps it tightly. “I don’t know,” Marc says, looking wondrously into the older man’s eyes. “I have no idea what’s happening. I’m just glad you’re here with me.”

“Me too,” Scott says wetly, giving Marc’s hand a squeeze. “I’m so glad to share this with you.”

They stay like that, gazing tearfully at each other until the server comes over with their plates of food. “Hello gentlemen, sorry to interrupt.” she announces, a bit too cheerfully. Marc removes his hand and leans back to let her put his plate down in front of him. He’s once again stunned by the warmth and intimacy they share so effortlessly. What must it have been like to be unable to share this when surrounded by a ship full of other men, when any hint of deeper affection or sexual longing could mean the whip or worse for either of them?

They both reach for napkins to wipe at their faces and blow their noses. The cautious-eyed server asks if they need anything else, and when they both politely tell her no thank you, she leaves them alone again. “This is so surreal,” Marc says, picking up a chip and chewing thoughtfully. 

“They were in love,” says Scott. He hasn’t started eating, is looking down at his plate and a soft expression has stolen it’s way across his face. He looks up at Marc and their eyes meet again, and Marc feels it like a physical sensation. “They were very much in love, and I think I’m falling in love with you,” Scott adds, his voice breaking just a little. 

Marc feels a flush of warmth inside his chest and a thrill of pure electricity lick its way up from the center of his belly. “I feel the same way,” he says, his voice hushed, his heart pounding. “I’m falling hard for you.” 

Scott smiles, and there’s so much there. Fondness, joy, sadness, worry. It’s too much, and Marc looks down at his now blurry plate of food. He hasn’t cried this many times in one day since he was a child. “What do we do about it?” he asks.

“I hate to say this,” Scott says, “but I think we don’t do anything. Not until we know more.” He must see Marc’s frown of disappointment, because he continues. “There’s so much we still don’t know about what’s happening between us. Where these feelings are coming from? What if tomorrow, we manage to somehow exorcise these men’s … essences from our bodies? What if we put them to rest and they… I don’t know, ascend to some higher plane and take these feelings with them? What if they take us over? What if we become them? I have no idea what’s going to happen. And believe me Marc..” There’s a significant pause and Marc looks up at the sound of his name. “Believe me,” Scott continues intently, “I want to make love to you so badly I can taste it. It’s all I’ve thought about this week. But you were a straight man up until roughly ten minutes ago, and this is all so strange. Let's just wait until we see what tomorrow brings.” 

Marc thinks for a moment. He knows Scott is right, even if it feels incredibly difficult to keep apart from him physically. Scott wants what’s best for them both. If they fall into bed and shag, and then the feelings evaporate, or worse, only evaporate for one of them... If perhaps Marc reverts to only finding women attractive, reverts to nothing more than a fond friendship with Scott, a lot of awkwardness and pain could result. He snuffs out the part of him that’s insisting that won’t happen, the part that only wants Scott’s body pressed against him, Scott’s lips on his, and says that he agrees.

“I did some research on the straight thing actually,” he says. “I found out that it’s not men I’m attracted to, it’s just you. Apparently, I find you nigh on irresistible, but other men don’t do anything for me. And I still like women.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Scott says, smiling wryly. “I imagine it would be beyond bizarre to have your entire orientation change overnight.”

“Yes, I was relieved. I mean, if I woke up gay tomorrow, I’d get used to it pretty quickly, but it would be a bit of a mind-fuck for sure.” Scott nods to show he understands, that Marc isn’t saying anything negative about being gay in general, just expressing how confusing it would be to suddenly desire only men after a lifetime of heterosexuality. 

“It’s flattering really,” Scott says with a mischievous smile. “That you’re attracted to me and no other men. Strange, but flattering.”

“And I  _ am _ attracted to you,” Marc says, because he wants that to be crystal clear. “I think about you all the time. It’s deeply romantic and sexual, these feelings I have for you.”

“Keep talking like that, and I’ll be tempted to ignore what I just said about being cautious,” Scott is still smiling, but there’s fire in his gaze, and Marc feels a sharp, hot tug in the core of him at the sight of it. 

He holds Scott’s burning gaze for just a second longer before dropping his eyes back to his long neglected food. “Let's eat,” he says around a grin that just won’t leave his face. “Then when we get back to our respective flats, I’ll ring you up and we can talk about tomorrow.”

“I like that plan,” Scott says, lifting his sandwich and taking a large bite. 

And they do talk, long into the night. They both receive Dr. Murkowski’s list of questions, and it’s a good list. They discuss the questions, and their thoughts on what it all means. 

They both do some research into reincarnation and discover a surprising number of stories similar to theirs. A small boy in India, born with the face of a powerful shaman of three hundred years prior who takes up the same spiritual quest. A woman in Korea, born with her great grandmother’s face, and the same love of weaving intricate tapestries. Small stories, out of the way, in magazines that focus on the occult. Stories easily missed, or dismissed as hokum. In all of these similar cases, it appears that the host person and the incarnated soul (for lack of a more technical term) eventually find peace in the same mind and body, and this gives them both a sense of hope. That Bridgens and Peglar won’t simply disappear, and that they won’t take over Tutor and Reader either. 

Marc hates the idea of losing himself, but hates the idea of losing these two men as well. He’s grown attached to the idea of them. These poor, doomed sailors who loved one another so much, back in a time when being gay was punishable by whipping, incarceration and execution. If they are in fact one with he and Scott, then he wants them to stay, to find peace and live out a life they’ve always wanted and deserved. A life together. 

He can’t imagine not feeling this way about Scott. He can’t imagine these feelings evaporating into the ether the moment they discover the whole truth behind their situation. He prays that they’ll be able to be together in the end, because it’s all he wants. He hasn’t loved someone this quickly or this fiercely ever in his life. And it’s more than just the memories of John Bridgens he loves. He loves Scott Tutor. Loves Scott’s thirst for knowledge. Loves his kindness and patience. His gently sarcastic sense of humor. And he feels Scott’s love coming back to him, just as strongly. Once he’s grabbed a hold of these feelings, he hates the idea of them leaving him, drifting away, resolving into something lesser. 

After a four hour telephone call, he wishes Scott a good night, feels the ‘ _ I love you _ ,’ struggling to make its way past his lips but says “see you tomorrow” instead. He feels Scott’s unspoken words as well, in the long pause as they say goodnight. 

He crawls under his covers exhausted. It’s been perhaps the most challenging and incredible day of his life, and tomorrow doesn’t feel like it will be any easier, or any less profound.

He falls asleep swiftly and into a vivid dream. In it, he is lying on his back inside a tent. He can see the yellowing, filthy sides of the tent fabric billowing in a chill wind, can feel the cot he’s lying on against his back. He’s tired, bone tired, and in pain. His joints ache, his teeth hurt. His stomach is in knots. 

Above him is Scott’s face. His eyes are wet with tears, and he’s saying something urgent, but at first, Marc can’t hear him. He feels Scott’s hand come down to caress his cheek, sees the man’s head turn to look behind him, then turn back to look at Marc, and he speaks again. And this time, Marc hears him. “I love you. It’s Alright to go now, lad. I love you. You can go.” His voice is soft and full of grief. He’s so very sad, and Marc’s heart aches for him.

He wants very badly to reach up and embrace Scott, to pull him close, but he can’t move. His limbs are stiff and unresponsive, his joints are on fire, his stomach is twisted. “I love you,” he says, or tries to, as his voice a rasping, cracked thing, and then, the dream fades. 

He wakes with a cry, drenched in sweat and shaking, his cheeks damp with fresh tears. The dream had seemed so real. Scott’s face had looked so very sad, and the sound of his voice had come through loud and clear. Marc throws off his covers and gasps for breath for a few moments, until the dream’s images go from sharp to faded. The sweat at his throat and chest and neck cools as the night air hits him and his breathing slows from a desperate gasp to a regular in and out. 

He finally pulls the blankets back over himself and drifts off to sleep again, but not before he acknowledges to himself that he might have just lived through the last moments of Henry Peglar’s life. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there weren't portraits of the crew below the higher ranking officers, but for the sake of plot, just pretend everyone has a portrait. Even Cornelius Hickey


	8. Chapter 8

They meet again at Dr. Murkowski’s office at 10:30am. Together, the three of them go over their plan for the next session. Dr. Murkowski is wearing a long skirt, a simple blouse and a knitted shawl. She’s playing the part, trying to cut back on jarring anachronisms. 

They go over the list of questions, mostly about what they remember of their lives, how they feel now, and what it is that they want. Also, they work up some simple responses to Bridgens’ and Peglar’s inevitable questions about where they are and what is happening. Dr. Murkowski thinks it’s best to tell them the truth, only omitting a lot of information. To tell them that they’re safe, that they are protected and well cared for and that it is difficult to explain where they are at the moment, but to ask them to be patient and simply try to relax. It’s not the most sophisticated approach, but she’s also certain (and Scott and Marc agree) that telling them they’re dead and are currently reincarnated souls inhabiting the bodies of two men from one hundred and sixty years in the future won’t go over well either.

Marc tells both Scott and Dr. Murkowski of his strange dream the night before, and how he thinks he witnessed the last moments of Henry Peglar’s life. Scott tells him he’s had a similar dream, one he’d almost forgotten until Marc mentions his. In it, Scott had been walking across a barren landscape of rock, under a bleak gray sky. He’d lain down among the rocks and had felt a great sadness well up inside him before the dream faded. This could very well have encapsulated Bridgens’ final moments. It was a small mercy that if this were the case, neither of them appeared to have died violently, but it still left Marc with an unsettled feeling and an almost overpowering urge to embrace Scott. 

There are a lot of unknowns involved, but the three of them feel up to the challenge. Marc expresses concern that he and Scott will be essentially leaving Dr. Murkowski alone with these two strangers, but she only shakes her head and tells them not to worry. “We’ve proven that I can snap you out of the trance with relative ease. And if anything, these men seemed very kind and rational sorts. I’m sure they’ll be fine company.” She offers them both a reassuring smile, one that’s nonetheless tinted with the frost of worry, before cueing up the mobile phone recorder and placing it in it’s spot on a nearby bookshelf. 

She hits the button and they all hear the electronic beep of the video starting. 

“I wanted to video record your taking of the medication, to catalogue the amount, and as a way to also record your consent. We’re playing with some dangerous elements here, so I’ll say this for the camera. I’m going to give you both 5 milligrams of Ativan and 2.5 milligrams of valium. The results should only make you feel rather loose and sleepy, nothing too intense, but also, I don’t want to under-dose, and have Bridgens’ and Peglar’s anxiety burn through the dosage as if it weren’t there. Hopefully, the worst case scenario is that you’ll have to spend an extra hour or two in my office, and have a stiff cup of tea or a nap on the sofa before I send you home.” 

They both accept the two and a half pills from her, and state verbally that they are giving informed consent to take the medication, before knocking them back with sips of water from coffee cups she puts on a side table.

After that, they go over their safety protocols, questions and answers once more to allow time for the medication to kick in, and to make certain they haven’t missed anything. 

For his part, Marc wants to try and stay aware of his surroundings during the session, to stay conscious and either interact with Peglar, or feel what it’s like to share a consciousness with Peglar. He doesn’t like the loss of control, and neither does Scott. 

Soon, he feels his eyelids getting a bit heavy, and starts to giggle at things that aren’t quite funny, and he can tell by Scott’s reactions that the older man is feeling loose as well, and so Dr. Murkowski starts the session. 

This time, Marc and Scott have decided to do their best to both think of the same place. A calm, white tundra. Empty, clean, and sunny. Non threatening, neutral, and likely familiar to both Bridgens and Peglar, who spent most of the last years of their lives living on the ice. He hopes this will allow them to get closer to the two souls they are trying to contact, without upsetting them unnecessarily. Or at least provide them with a somewhat unified vision. If they both imagine a similar scene, perhaps they’ll have similar results from the session? It is worth a shot. Neither of them have a clue if it will work.

Marc closes his eyes and sees the tundra. He imagines it being brisk, but not freezing. Perhaps a bit above 7 degrees celsius. And sunny. But not blinding. Just white snow and a yellow ball of the sun. Clear skies. Nothing in sight. He takes a deep breath and lets it out as Dr. Murkowski starts her countdown. 

“Ten...nine...eight…”

He breathes deeply again and lets the drug enhanced sense of relaxation wash through him.

“Seven...six...five…”

He focuses on that snow-white plain. Makes it innocent. Pure and smooth in his mind’s eye. Makes the sun brighter and sunnier.

“Four...three...two…”

Suddenly, he senses he is no longer alone inside his own head. 

“One” 

He hears Dr. Murkowski’s voice, (sounding both familiar and unfamiliar) ask him his name, and he pauses. Instead of giving his name he tells her the truth. “I think both of us are here now Doctor.” 

_ Bridgens is looking at the bruises on his arm. He’s the camp’s doctor now, and going to see him is a balm to Henry’s constant worry. The taller man’s gentle touch as he turns Henry’s forearm this way and that to inspect his bruises, still has the power to make his chest feel warm and his heart kick into a faster pace. Even out here in this barren nothingness, full of aches and pains, feeling certain that they will all perish under this endless, forgiving sky, he loves Bridgens. Loves John and loves to be touched by him. _

“Marc? Is it Marc Reader I’m speaking to?”

Marc opens his eyes, but he feels Henry, sitting somewhere at the back of his head. He senses Henry’s surprise at seeing this kindly woman he doesn’t recognize, and he feels his own surety at recognizing her at the same time. It’s a unique and bizarre feeling to be sure, but the loose relaxation he feels from the drugs is helping. 

“It’s… I’m… well, I’m fairly certain I’m Marc, but Henry is here as well ma’am.” His speech is different, more antiquated and polite, and he, Marc can feel the difference, and that too is disorienting. 

“And you Scott? What are you feeling?”

A familiar voice, deep and soft and close by says, “I feel the same, Sophia. I feel John here with me. He is confused by your presence. It’s the strangest…” he trails off, his voice stalling out into silence.

Marc looks over at him, and the moment his eyes meet Scott’s he sees John Bridgens. He sees  _ John _ , and John’s eyes light up and then Henry has thrown himself into John’s arms. 

“John, John, John,” Henry says, and Marc feels his throat close up with a sharp lump of grief and pain. John is holding him tightly, stroking his hair, and saying his name as well, over and over. 

Marc lets himself fall into the passenger seat, and he finds it easy to let go of the wheel, to sit back and let Henry be embraced, be petted and kissed. John is kissing Henry’s face, his cheeks, his mouth, kissing away sudden tears that are coursing down Henry’s face, and Marc can feel all this from a position a little removed, and also from within Henry Peglar. He feels the joy rise up inside him at the feel of John’s soft lips against his skin, and the sound of John’s voice saying his name again and again.  _ At last _ , they are together. At last they can touch, and kiss and tell each other they love one another. And they do. 

“I love you so very much,” Henry sobs into John’s neck. 

“Yes, yes, Henry my love, yes. Shhh shh shh” John is doing what he’s always done so well, comforting Henry. Sheltering him. Making him feel grounded and secure in a way no one else ever has. 

For a long time, that’s all that happens. Henry clings to John and sobs. John holds Henry like a child in his large, strong arms and Henry feels John’s chest shaking as he cries too. Eventually Henry pulls away so that he can see John’s face. That dear, dear face, with those dark eyes, that large nose and soft expressive mouth beneath it. It’s a face so beloved and so familiar, and yet different. John is clean shaven, his brows trimmed and neat. His hair is very much the same, but his clothing is unusual in a way that Henry cannot put a finger on. 

A sniffle reminds Henry of the fact that they are not alone. He knew the woman had been there, when he’d first embraced John, but had also been strangely comfortable with her presence. He knows her somehow. And here, Marc perks up and allows his familiarity with Dr. Murkowski to flood into Henry’s awareness and Henry knows this is a friend he can trust. That he does not have to pull away from John and make excuses. He does not have to tell her this is nothing more than a meeting of two dear friends. 

Still, he can’t very well continue to kiss John while they are not alone, as it would be very rude and improper, he regretfully pulls himself from John’s embrace, but stays sitting near him, pressed against his warm side. After clasping one of John’s large, warm hands in both of his, he turns to face the friendly woman. She is crying too, wiping at her face with a brilliant white cloth. Marc, still settled somewhere in the background of Henry’s awareness, provides the word  _ tissue _ , and Henry knows what material this soft, disposable cloth is made of, and feels no surprise at this knowledge. 

Dr. Murkowski blows her nose, then grasps another tissue from the brightly coloured box at her elbow and wipes at her eyes while handing the box to Henry. He gratefully pulls out two of the soft, snow white cloths and so does John before handing the box back. They clean themselves up, and take deep, shaking breaths. 

“Hello,” Dr. Murkowski says cautiously. “I think we had decided to use a false name for me to save you from confusion, but something tells me you’ll understand when I tell you that I am a medical doctor that deals with diseases of the mind, and that my name is Doctor Sophia Murkowski. Does that seem clear?” 

Henry nods, and John does too. Inside Henry, Marc is radiating calming reassurance, and the knowledge that yes, a woman doctor dealing with disorders of the mind is a natural thing. Henry knows Marc. Has known him a long time without realizing it. Not by name, but by his dreams. His subconscious longings, his inner dialogue. Henry has seen all of these things, and has seen this strange new world in bits and pieces over the years of Marc’s life, and now, it is all coming together in a way he cannot quite understand... He thinks he _ could  _ understand if given some time, and does not let the incongruence between he and Marc bother him. 

“I think perhaps it is best if I leave the room now, so that the two of you can be alone,” says the kindly woman, rising from her chair. “I had a list of questions to ask, but it’s feeling a little silly now. The two of you clearly need to talk.” She pauses, looking down at them with a tearful smile on her plump face. “If you need me, I’ll be just outside that door.” Then she turns and leaves. 

The moment the door closes behind her Henry is pulled back into John’s embrace. For a long time, they simply hold each other. John smells good, but very different. Clean and fresh and radiating unfamiliar scents, both musky and floral, that Henry has to admit he likes very much. John’s arms are so warm and strong, and in them, Henry feels so safe and so protected. John strokes Henry’s hair, softly, slowly and rocks him a little, and Henry luxuriates in this gentle treatment, in John’s body heat and the soft touch of his fingertips. 

After a long time, Henry finally finds the strength to pull away and gaze into John’s eyes. “I died, didn’t I?” he asks, and the pain that blooms in John’s face tells him the answer before the other man even nods. 

“You did, my love. You died with me holding your hand.” John’s expression is equal parts sadness and fondness, and the look in his eyes strikes Henry to his core. 

“What happened to you, John? Did you live? Did we make our way south?” Inside him though, even as he asks the question, he feels Marc’s negative response, knows the answer a split second before he sees John shake his head regretfully. He supposes he’s known how the expedition ended since Marc first learned of it. He’s been aware of many things from within the quiet corner of Marc’s mind where he’s spent the past indeterminate amount of time, dreaming, drifting… 

“No, Henry darling, we did not. Scott tells me that no one lived. Scurvy, lead poisoning, the cold, the beast.. All dead, I’m sorry to say.”

“And you, John?” Henry must know what became of his love, because Marc does not, and so neither does Henry.

“When you passed on, I walked out into the hills and lay myself down and let the ground and wind and cold take me,” John says. “Without you, there was no reason to keep going. Only to die some horrible death a few days or weeks later. I took your journal with me, and read it as I whiled away the time. You were always in my mind and my heart, Henry. Always.”

“Oh,  _ John _ … I am sorry.” Henry is crying again. John’s eyes too well up with water. 

“But look my love, here I am,” John says softly, smiling through his tears. “Here we both are.”

“I want us never to part again,” Henry says. “Not ever.”

“Neither do I, love. Neither do I.” Upon saying this, John leans in and captures Henry’s mouth in a soft kiss. Henry sighs and leans into the pressure of John’s lips against his own. His heart swells with love and warmth and he throws his arms around John’s neck. They kiss for some time, softly, sweetly and stroke each other’s hair, and look into each other’s eyes. They interlace the fingers of their hands and John brings Henry’s up to his mouth to place gentle kisses against each of Henry’s knuckles. They say  _ I love you _ again and again, just to revel in the novelty of those words, spoken out loud, in this paradise of privacy they’ve been afforded. 

As the time ticks by, they remember that they aren’t truly alone. There are two other men here. Men that feel as familiar to them both as their own skin. Marc and Scott. Henry welcomes Marc back in, and John does the same for Scott, and they, the four of them, play with their awareness a little to see how it feels to live, all together. It is a bit confounding, but Henry thinks it will work quite well, once they’ve had time to grow accustomed to it. 

Eventually, they both find it easier, in their present situation, in a city neither of them know any longer, surrounded by strange new sights and sounds, to let Scott and Marc take the reins once more. They slip back beneath the surface as their hosts step forward, and it feels something like a dance, partners stepping around one another in a pattern, trading places.

Dr. Murkowski looks inquisitively at them after Marc gets up to call her back into the office.

“To whom am I speaking?” she asks, peering at them curiously. They both tell her that they are back in the proverbial driver’s seat and her eyes go wide with awed fascination. 

Marc, Scott and Sophia talk for quite some time, about the implications of what has just happened. About what might happen next. Dr. Murkowski is full of questions, and for a while, they indulge her with answers to the best of their ability. It helps also to give the drugs some time to wear off and to let them find a balance with these other awarenesses that live inside them both. After two hours have gone by, during which Marc notices that Henry flares up like a joyful firecracker inside his mind and heart whenever he looks at Scott/John, he begins to yawn from real exhaustion, not from ativan and valium. Scott notices and tells Dr. Murkowski that they need to head home. He says they’ll be back in touch tomorrow, Monday, and Marc agrees. He’ll cash in on some much needed vacation time and take the day off. 

They hail a cab together and sit holding hands in the back seat. Marc feels Henry’s delight over being inside an automobile like a muted giggle inside his mind. It will take some getting used to. They both talk about how their ‘other selves’ have largely stayed in the background all these years, and are itching to come out into the light. It appears they only needed to find one another to ignite these men’s essences. Much will need to be gone over and discussed, but right now, all Marc wants is to go somewhere and rest and spend time alone with Scott. Well, ‘alone’ might be a loose term. But somewhere with just the four of them.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a big pile of fluff and smut

They decide to go to Scott’s flat. It’s much homier than Marc’s, and Scott says that John enjoys being surrounded by books. 

Once they’re alone, Marc grows unaccountably shy. This might be from the newfound knowledge that John and Henry never took the opportunity to consummate their relationship when they had the chance. In London, before the expedition set sail, they’d spent many long hours together in John’s small set of rented rooms, John teaching Henry to read and write Latin and Greek. Marc feels those memories now, lancing through his mind like golden shafts of sunlight. How they’d shared many meals and many stories of their lives. How Henry had looked at John when he was sure John wouldn’t notice. The thrilling accidental touch of hand on hand, or companionable hand on shoulder, hand on forearm, that made Henry bloom inside with suppressed heat. 

And yet, Henry had not been able to bring himself to do so much as kiss John. Marc knows why. It was fear. And confusion. Such a thing had never been contemplated seriously by Henry, a man raised in the dark ages of gay persecution. He’d known John liked other men, but he hadn’t been able to square that with his own image of himself. How could he kiss another man...touch another man, when he knew it was a crime and a sin against God? And why oh why had he wanted to so very badly? 

It is tragically ironic that Henry truly realizes how very much he loves and desires John, only when they are on board different ships, stuck in the ice in what is now northern Canada. When they are surrounded by other men and unable to be together. Many men who knew John, and knew he was a lover of other men, knew that he never indulged when on duty. And Henry couldn’t dare, not with so few moments of privacy, and that much only afforded by the thin curtain draped across the doorway of their small cabins. 

As the end of their lives drew nearer, they’d shared a few lingering touches, a fierce embrace or two, and that had been it. It’s no wonder that their souls took to wandering, looking for resolution somewhere almost two centuries down the line.

Henry had cursed his lack of action so many times, when his fingers brushed John’s on the spine of a book. When John’s eyes caught his and held. So much joy they could have shared, if only Henry had found the courage to speak up. To grab John and press their lips together at any time before they both climbed on board those ships and effectively sealed their fates. 

Marc brings all this up. Henry’s regret, Marc’s own nervousness. He tells Scott he wants to make love, and that he’s been tested for STIs since his marriage, and is negative. Scott tells him the same, and thanks him for bringing it up. It’s a thing a pair of mid 19th century sweethearts would probably not think to bring up, so it’s best if they discuss it now, before getting closer physically. 

Marc also confesses that he’s never done this before, been with a man, and while he’s burning up with desire for Scott, he’s also afraid he’ll somehow do it wrong. That he’ll be a clumsy and unfulfilling bed partner. Scott tells him this is an impossibility. He tells Marc that this isn’t the Olympics. That Marc will not be scored points for accuracy and grace, which makes Marc snort with laughter and helps break the tension. Scott suggests that they sit together and chat, take things slow, and Marc agrees, letting out a sigh of relief.

But then, when Scott says that he’ll go make them some tea, Marc feels Henry’s disappointment at his years of inaction rise up inside him like a tide. As Scott turns toward the kitchen, Marc grabs him by the sleeve, pulls him back and into his arms and kisses him. Softly at first, then with increasing passion. 

Scott swiftly wraps Marc in his arms and deepens the kiss and before they know it, they’ve stumbled over to Scott’s bed and have climbed onto it. They lay there for some time, kissing and touching over their clothes, and every stroke of Scott’s hand on Marc’s body brings Henry closer and closer to the surface. Marc feels himself fading, but not leaving, more simply... blending with Henry’s awareness, and it feels right, to let Henry have this. He’s waited far too long to share this with John, and so Marc lets himself go, lets himself continue fading and mixing, until it is Henry’s hand that strokes reverently down John’s arm, Henry’s lips that part to admit John’s questing tongue. Henry looks up into the eyes of the man leaning over him. “John?” he asks, and John smiles and nods, showing him that they are once again together. Henry smiles back and surges up to kiss him.

John takes his time kissing Henry slowly, softly, deeply. As he does so, he lets his hands wander, smoothing their way across Henry’s chest, stroking down his side and rubbing soft, soothing circles against Henry’s belly over his shirt. Henry is very aroused immediately, but he lets himself be touched slowly and languidly by John. Lets John do what he likes, and resists the urge to quicken things, to arch up into John’s hands or beg for more touch. 

John unbuttons Henry’s shirt slowly, button by button, spreads it open and slides a warm palm across Henry’s naked stomach. Henry cannot help himself, and presses up into John’s hand with a gasp. This makes John smile against his lips before renewing the kiss with heated fervor. Soon, John has Henry’s trousers open and pushes them and his small clothes down as well, and they’ve both pulled Henry’s shirt from his body and Henry is lying naked. He’s naked and unashamed by his nudity, lying half beneath John, who leans over him on his elbow, looking down at his body with soft, hungry eyes. 

Henry’s cock is stiff to the point of aching, but John doesn’t yet touch him there. Instead he places the softest kisses down Henry’s neck to his chest. He plays gently at a nipple with his tongue and when Henry cries out in surprised pleasure, John does the same to the other nipple, teasing at the first with his fingertips, until Henry is writhing and moaning beneath him. It is only then that John pulls away and begins to remove his own clothing. Henry rushes to help him, and soon, they’re both naked and wrapped in each other’s arms, kissing as if this is their last moment on earth. 

Henry cannot help but press wantonly against John’s body, feeling the warmth of his skin, the pleasantly scratchy hair on his chest and belly, his stiff, hot cockstand jutting against Henry’s upper thigh. John is a larger man than he, all strong arms and broad chest, and Henry feels enveloped in his heat, held and protected by him in the most pleasing way. He sucks on John’s tongue, bites softly at his lips, rubs against him, marveling at the waves of lust that wash through him, leaving him breathless in their wake. He’s so aroused that it’s dizzying. 

John reaches down between them and grasps both of their members in one of his large, thick fingered hands and frigs them gently against each other. Henry juts his hips into the hot grip of John’s palm, and against the thick heat of John’s cockstand and surrenders himself to that devastating friction. He’s gasping out John’s name, kissing his neck, clutching his fingers in John’s soft, sweet smelling hair. John whispers his name back, kisses his forehead and cheeks and mouth, works them expertly and relentlessly with his hand. 

It does not take long for them to both reach their crisis. The kissing, the nearness and long suppressed love between them, the long awaited closeness, it’s intoxicating and miraculous. Soon, Henry hears John gasp and let out a low groan as he spills between them. The resulting slickness and heat pushes Henry swiftly over the edge after him, and he too comes undone, clinging to John and crying out his pleasure against John's sweat damp neck. 

Afterward, after they’ve lain together, panting and happy, trading slow, soft kisses for a long while as their heartbeats and respiration return to normal, Marc feels himself come back into the foreground. It is Scott who reaches with a practiced hand for a roll of paper towel that’s half hidden under the bed, and it is Scott who carefully cleans them both up before gathering Marc back into his arms. 

He chuckles warmly as he pulls Marc close and kisses the top of his head. “To think,” he says, a hint of laughter ringing through his lazy, satisfied tone, “those two made love within half a foot of a bottle of perfectly good lube, and neither one was any the wiser.” 

Marc finds this hysterical, and bursts into peels of laughter. There’s release behind the joy, and he clings to Scott and laughs and laughs and Scott joins him, chest and belly shaking with barely suppressed giggles. 

Marc eventually falls back, gasping for air, wiping happy tears from his eyes, still racked by aftershocks of chuckles as he strokes a hand down Scott’s neck to rest it over his heart. He gazes up at Scott, full to the brim with serotonin. “This is going to take some practice,” he says. Scott is smiling down at him, looking equally smitten. “Was that good for you?” Marc asks. “Were you...  _ there _ enough to enjoy it? I certainly was.” And he  _ was, _ he realizes. Marc had felt every single move, every sliding, silken inch of Scott’s skin against his own, every wet, hot kiss they’d shared. It had been fantastic, if a little strange to not be calling the shots. To be a passenger of sorts.

“Absolutely,” Scott confirms. “Though that is genuinely the first time I’ve ever been a guest inside my own body for a shag. Nonetheless, I thought it was spectacular.” He kisses Marc softly on the lips, and Marc can tell it’s just the two of them now. Scott kissing Marc. He suspects John and Henry are napping in post-coital bliss, and it makes him smile against Scott’s mouth. 

“I have his memories now,” Marc says. “Of our times in London. Of our times on board Darwin’s ship.”

“Yes! The Beagle!” Scott gets that history nerd glint in his eye that Marc is learning to adore, and nods enthusiastically. “All those long years of being a perfect gentleman, teaching you to read and write like a patient school marm. I should have pounced on you when I had the chance.” He grins wolfishly.

“I wanted you so badly,” Marc says, noting the surrealism of speaking for someone who died over a century before he was even born. “But I was afraid.”

“I know,” Scott says, his eyes going kind and his hand coming up to stroke Marc’s hair from his brow with gentle fingertips. “I knew you were. That’s why I did nothing. I only ever got involved with men who came to me first. I couldn’t ever dare being the one to initiate things. If I was mistaken, I’d pay dearly for it.” 

“Still,” Marc feels a twist of sadness behind his breastbone. “I wish I’d been braver. There’s so much we could have had.”

“We can have it now,” Scott says, and leans in to kiss Marc again briefly. “We can have it now, love.”

Scott probably means the kiss to be chaste and affectionate, but Marc feels a tug of lust as their lips meet and he chases Scott’s mouth with his, and soon, their mouths are open against each other. Marc slings his leg over Scott’s hip and he’s stiffening swiftly. 

“Mmmm,” Scott hums against Marc’s mouth. “I think it’s our turn to have a go, yes?”

Marc doesn’t respond, only runs his fingertips lazily up the length of Scott’s half-hard cock. He revels in the noises this pulls from Scott’s mouth and does it again, bending his head to press kisses against Scott’s warm neck, enjoying the feel of Scott coming slowly back to attention beneath his fingers. 

This time, they make love like two twenty first century men. Scott is fond of a bit of dirty talk apparently, and Marc adores this. 

“ _ I want to suck your cock until you explode in my mouth _ ,” Scott whispers hotly into Marc’s ear, and Marc groans in anticipation and thrusts with his hips against Scott. Marc's cock is at stiff and throbbing, as if he hadn’t already come once, and Scott feels to be right behind him. 

Scott pushes him down into the mattress on his back and kisses his way south, murmuring praises and filthy sentiments between presses of his lips. 

_ “Mmm you taste so good. I bet your cock tastes even better. I’m so hot for you. You’re so gorgeous. You turn me on so much.” _

Marc luxuriates in the attention, the compliments, the hot, sucking tingles of Scott’s kisses down over his sternum to his belly and lower. He rises to his elbows so he can watch what’s being done to him. Scott keeps his eyes trained on Marc’s face, and the heat in his gaze is electrifying as his mouth works down Marc’s body with aching slowness. Marc can’t help but cant his hips up, bucking up in anticipation, and this makes Scott smile against his skin. Scott takes plenty of time teasing him, placing soft kisses to his shaft, tasting him at the head with the tip of his tongue. By the time he finally slides Marc into his mouth, Marc is writhing on the bed, his hands buried in Scott’s hair, gasping obscenities. 

It’s unbelievable, the wet heat of Scott’s mouth, the slick slide of him along Marc’s length. Marc lasts longer this time, is able to luxuriate for a while in the devastating sensation. He’s cursing repeatedly, a soft chant,  _ fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck _ , thrusting up gently into Scott’s mouth, clutching at his hair and neck and shoulder. 

He feels himself getting close and tells Scott, “I’ll come soon baby. Can I...?” 

Scott grunts an urgent affirmation in answer to Marc’s implied question. He increases the bob of his head and holds Marc by the hips, sucking him so deep, and all Marc can do is fall apart into the strongest orgasm he thinks he’s ever had. He cries out Scott’s name, or perhaps it’s John’s, but it doesn’t really matter. All that matters is Scott’s mouth and the sharp pulses of pleasure throbbing through him as he climaxes. 

Once’s he’s seen Marc through to the loose, gasping end of his pleasure, Scott rises up on his knees between Marc’s spread legs. His cock is stiff, rising dark and thick from the thatch of silver and dark hair between his thighs, and he asks if he can touch himself while he looks at Marc. This is astounding to Marc, who while he knows he’s a relatively attractive man, has never had a partner express a desire to get off to the sight of him. It’s insanely flattering, and while he’s very keen on giving his first blow job, he agrees readily to this instead. After Scott has reached to his bedside table for the once-hinted-at bottle of lube and slicked his hand, he kneels between Marc’s legs and begins.

He strokes himself slowly, his eyes playing over Marc’s face and chest and belly with a possessive sort of softness. Scott moans as he works his cock, and tells Marc that he’s beautiful. He praises Marc’s auburn hair and pale skin and strokes a slow hand down Marc’s thigh while he continues working himself. 

Beyond all biological reason, Marc feels himself grow hard again under the heat of Scott’s appraisal. Perhaps Henry is waking up a bit inside him as well, adding his libedo to the proceedings, because Marc has never in his life, even in his twenties, been able to achieve three erections in one night. But the sight of Scott, his handsome face wreathed in lust, his dark chest hair mixed with silver, soft belly and strong thighs, thick fist, pumping at his gorgeous cock, it’s getting Marc there fast. It doesn’t hurt matters of course that Scott keeps moaning praises of Marc’s looks.

Marc takes himself in hand and begins stroking. This makes Scott moan loudly and increase his speed. “Jesus, you’re beautiful,” Scott gasps. “So fucking gorgeous. Just looking at you, it’s gonna make me come so hard. Oh God Marc, god,  _ god _ .”

Marc feels his third orgasm begin to glimmer on the horizon, and keeps his eyes locked to Scott’s as Scott gets closer and closer to his climax. “I love you,” Marc says, in a harsh whisper, and watches as Scott’s eyes slide closed and he tumbles over the edge. 

“Oh fuck, I love you too,” Scott says, then gasps as he shoots hot streaks of semen over Marc’s cock and belly. 

Marc gathers some of Scott’s come to slick his own hand on his cock and within a few seconds, he’s arching up off the bed and crying out his own climax. 

They decide no amount of paper towel will do the trick, and take a shower instead. It feels like a blessing, and Marc is certain that Henry and John are there with them, marveling in the hot spray of water cascading over their naked bodies. Such a luxury, to have hot water, piped directly into one’s living space. Marc now has the memories of endless basins of lukewarm or freezing cold water being splashed against his face and underarms and belly, and as a result is newly grateful for indoor plumbing. 

He and Scott take a long time, soaping each other up, kissing and fooling around. There’s no way they’re having sex again, but it’s still fun to run soap slicked hands over each other’s bodies. Once they’ve rinsed off and climbed out and dried themselves, amid many kisses and dopey smiles, they tumble back into bed and into each other’s arms. 

Marc drifts off to sleep surrounded by Scott’s warmth. He notes without surprise that the empty feeling that’s lived inside his chest for more than forty years is completely gone. In its place is a deep swell of love for Scott… for John. All is well, and he is loved and he loves. He nuzzles his face into Scott’s neck and lets himself fall away, exhausted, and happier than he’s ever been. 


	10. Chapter 10

A month later and they’ve settled into a happy routine. They spend most nights at Scott’s, but sometimes Scott comes to Marc’s to spend the evening, and they are in plans to buy a house together. They call each other “John” and “Henry” half the time, and no longer feel much separation between their two awarenesses. Marc’s memories of Henry’s life blend seamlessly with his own, and sometimes it’s only possible to distinguish the two by which memories contain telephones and refrigerators and which contain wash boards and pens dipped in ink. 

After they’ve been together for a few months, Marc brings Scott to his mother’s house for a family dinner. He’s said he has a new partner, a man, and while his mother and brothers are a bit taken aback by the sudden change, they take it in stride. Once they’re all seated in Marc’s mothers comfortable sitting room with drinks, Marc explains. He tells them how his strange dreams and visions had led him to find Scott, and that they are both two people at once. Reincarnated souls, even though it sounds ridiculous when said out loud to someone who isn't Scott or Dr. Murkowski.

“This is _John_ ,” he says. “ _The_ John.” he adds, with significant emphasis. He’d wanted to get them all in one place, in person to tell them. It was far too strange and profound a thing to explain via phone call or email.

“ _The_ John? John from when you were a baby?” Robert asks, astounded, and Marc nods. 

“And I’m Henry,” he says, grinning. “John here… I mean Scott, had been asking for me when he was a wee thing too.” 

“Oh my!” his mother clasps her hands at her heart and a wide smile steals its way across her face. “You’ve found each other!” she exclaims. 

Sam is instantly fascinated. “Which Henry?” He asks urgently. “Which John?” 

“I’m Henry Peglar, and he’s John Bridgens. Are you familiar with them from your research?”

“Are you joking?!” Sam’s eyes light up. “It was long postulated that they might have been romantically involved. A man’s remains were found with Henry Peglar’s journal, and it wasn’t Peglar. He mentions a romantic connection with one of the men, in coded letters on the back of a page, and now we can confirm it was Bridgens!”

John nods. “It was indeed I,” he says and everyone has to stop and stare at him in wonderment before he continues. “When Henry passed away, I went out into the elements and just lay there and let them take me. I didn’t see the point of living without him. I took his journal with me.”

Marc’s mother is crying. “I know you’re talking about someone who died a long time ago, but it feels as if you’re talking about my Marc, and I just.. I can’t imagine how sad..” She cuts off abruptly, covering her face with her hands, narrow shoulders shaking with soft sobs. 

Marc leans over to deliver a kiss to her forehead and pats her on the back. “Don’t cry mum, look, I’m still here, and I’ve found him again.” 

They take some time attempting to explain the way they experience their other selves, and do a fairly good job of it, even if Marc’s mother looks as if she might need a while to process things before she truly grasps it. His brothers however are intrigued and seem to understand right away. 

Robert and Sam pepper Scott with questions for the rest of the night, and Marc has to drag him away. It seems Scott gets along with his brothers like a house on fire. Especially with Sam, who sees Scott as a living novel about the Franklin expedition.

Later that night, as they ready themselves for bed at Scott’s flat, Scott takes both of Marc’s hands in his. “I very much like your family,” he says, bringing Marc’s hands to his mouth to kiss his folded fingers. “I want you to meet my parents soon too. I think they’ll like you just as much.”

“I’d be honored,” Marc smiles up at him. 

Soon they are embracing under the covers. This is when they are the most Henry and John. Of course sometimes, Marc and Scott make love as well, in their more modern way, but they enjoy letting their old fashioned side out, letting the parts of themselves that have longed to be together have the chance to find release and satisfaction. 

Henry teases John with soft tugs of his hand and kisses him slowly, reveling in the low moans John lets out as he thrusts into Henry’s palm. Henry wriggles lower and nuzzles John’s cock with his nose, kisses the hot velvety skin of his shaft, toying with John, playing with him. He loves driving John wild with passion, and is getting better and better at the nuances, the little things he knows will make John gasp and moan Henry’s name. God but he loves the sound of his name on John’s lips, said in that ragged, desperate way. Has wanted it there for longer than he can now remember.

He slides John into his mouth, only able to take him halfway, and uses his hand on the rest of him. He works him slowly while John lays back, clenches his fists in Henry’s hair and calls him _love_ , calls him _darling, oh my darling._

When John is close to his release, Henry pulls back. He slicks his fingers with lubrication and slowly works John open before fucking him, gently, then with more and more force, until John comes apart and Henry cries out and spills inside him. 

After they’ve cleaned up, they settle back together, kissing and touching as they always do, gazing at one another with two sorts of awareness, two kinds of love. There’s new love there. Exciting and thrilling. And an older love, one well worn yet never allowed to make itself heard before now. There’s so much love, at times, Marc feels as if he and Henry are drowning in it. But what a lovely way to go, wrapped in his lover's arms, warm and safe at last. 

“I love you, Henry,” John says, kisses Henry's forehead and both of his closed eyelids. 

“I love you, John,” Henry wriggles closer and presses soft kisses to John’s chest, just above his heart. He knows that John is not young, that their time together is more limited than he’d like. He regrets not meeting John again sooner, but is also beyond grateful that they did manage to find one another again. 

Marc had thought, when he met Scott, that it was Scott that had finally filled in the space in his chest that had felt so empty for so many years. But it isn’t long before he realizes it wasn’t really Scott that made that ache go away once and for all. It wasn’t even John Bridgens. It was Henry Peglar. Henry, who had been resting, dreaming inside him for 42 years. Now Henry has a home inside Marc’s soul. At last he has freedom and love and a safe place to flourish. And that is what finally banishes Marc’s loneliness for good. 

Henry falls asleep, sheltered and warm, the sound of John Bridgen’s heart, thumping reassuringly against his ear. He has found peace at last. He has found his John again, and all is right with the world. Outside Scott’s bedroom window, the distant sound of traffic is both a reassuring susurrus and a strange new noise, all in one. If Henry listens intently enough, sometimes, he even thinks he can hear the sea…


End file.
